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THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


ZABETH  Barrett  Browning 


^Vim    A.    INIEMOIK, 

CO  K  RE  C  TED     11  V     THE      LAST     LONDON     EDITION. 


SOL.  EYTINGE.  Jr.,  W.  J.  HENNESSY,    W.  THWAITES,  and  C.  G.  BUSH. 


SITTING  ROOM  AT  CASA  GUIDI. 

tFNlVKIJSrrV    OF 


NEW    YORK: 

JAMES   MILLER,    PUBLLSHER, 
779  BnoADWAY. 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congre';':,  in  tlie  yenr  1S70.  by 

.IA.ME5  MILLER, 
III  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


T7ie  right  of  publishing  this  hook  in  the  United  States  hav- 
ing been  liberally  purchased  bv  Mr.  James  AIillek,  //  ?V  hope< 
that  there  ivill  be  no  interference  ivith  the  same. 

Robert  Browning. 

LoNi>UN,  February  20,  i8£2. 


1810 


INDEX  OF  CONTENTS. 


V'OLUME  Z. 


fAOB 

Adequacy 319 

An  Apprehension 347 

An  Aiifrust.  Voice 43") 

Bereavement  33!) 

li^rtha  ill  t lie  Lane 249 

Bettine,  To 30(i 

Calls  on  t  lie  Heart 401 

(Jliaiitre  upon  Chanirc 4-.'7 

Clieerrulness  Taught  by  Reason.  348 

Jhild  Asleep 2'8 

Child's  Thon-rht  of  God 408 

Christmas  Gifts 437 

Claim,  The    337 

Comfort 34.i 

Coiil'essions S^jJ 

Consolation S39 

Cowpcr's  Gra^e 413 

Crowned  and  Buried 3T7 

Crowned  and  Wedded 314 

Cry  of  the  CliiUlreu 274 

Cry  of  the  Iluuiau „ ..  383 

Dead  Pan MT^.f...  435 

Dead  Rose 409 

Deserted  Garden 325 

"Died" 439 

Discontent 3 17 

Drama  of  Exile 25 

tiarlli  anil  lier  Pralsers 28tj 

Exajjf'eratioii 348 

Exile,  s  Ueturn '110 

Felicia  Heinans 311 

Pi:iite  and  Inlinite 34(i 

Flower  in  a  Letter 397 

Flush,  My  Doj,' 321^. 

Flush  and  F annus 34() 

Fourfold  Aspect 280 

Futurity  3J3 

George  Sand,  To.    A  Desire  —  349 
George  Sand,  To.  A  Recognition  :i49 

Grid.     342 

HeAV< ..  and  Earth 3ii3 

Hector  in  tht;  Garden 330 

Hiram  I'owers'  Greek  Slave. ..   .  3.V-J 

House  of  Clouds 392 

Human  Lile't  .Mystery 40ti 

Hugh  Stuart  Boyd,  His    Blind- 
ness   351 

Hugh    Stuart  Boyd,  His   Death, 

\WS& 3.-)4 

Hugh  Stuart  Boyd,  His  Legacies.  355 

Insnfticieiicy    350 

Irreparableness 341 

Island,  An 296 

Isobel's  Child 190 

Lady  Geialdiue's  Courtship  25.') 

Lady's  Yes 422 

Lament  for  Adonip 141 

Lay  of  the  Brown  Rosary 211 

Lay  of  the  Early  Itose 377 

L.  E.  L.'s  Last  (Question 313 

Lessons  from  the  Gorsc 422 

Life 3i2 

Look,  The »44 

Look.  Meaning  of  the 345 

Lost  Bower 355 

Love 353 


PAQV 

Loved  Once 30(1 

Alan  and  Nature 3ii8 

Man's  Requirements 424 

Mary  Russel  Milford  in  her  Gar- 
den   840 

]\Iask.  The 400 

>feaning  of  the  Look 345 

Measnrc.  The    413 

Ak'niory  and  Hope 4or 

Mo  unt.iineer  and  Poet 351 

Mourning  Mother 41£ 

My  Doves .  32€ 

Night  and  the  Merryman 284 

I'aiii  in  Pleasure 34f 

Past,  and  Future 34( 

Patience  taught  by  Nature 347 

Perplexed  Music 34S 

Pel  Name 417 

Poet,  The 352 

Poet  and  the  Bird.    A  Fable  ....  382 

Poefs  Vow.  The 171 

Portrait.  A 3S(; 

I'risoner,  The 350 

Prometheus  Bound lOS  , 

Prospect,  The ZrA 

Quostiou  and  Answer 274 

Recogniliou.  A 349 

Heed,  A..... -.     4-.20 

Rhapsody  of  Life's  l^n>!i:ress 372 

Rhyme  of  the  Duchess  .M'ly ^30 

Romance  of  tile  Gamjes     22.) 

Romance  of  the  Swan's  Nest 2^6 

Romauiit  of  .Murn^rel 184 

Romaunl  of  the  Page 203 

Runaway  Slave  at  Pilgrim's  Point  428 

Sabbath  Mornuig  al  bea 39c 

Sea-mew,  The 310 

Seaside  Walk 309 

Seraph  and  Poet.   339 

Seraphim,  The 82 

Sleep.... 411 

Sleeping  and  Watching 333 

Song  against  Singing .'ji.'] 

Song  of  the  Rose 40S 

ScUiiitts Soh 

Soul's  Expression,  The o-iS 

Soul's  Travelling,  The 301 

Sound« 334 

Substitution 342 

Tears    341 

That  Day 427 

Thought  for  a  Lonely  Death-bed,  345 

Two  Sayings 344 

Two  Sketches— L  and  II 350 

■Virgin  Mary  to  the  Child  Jesus..  292 

Vision  of  Poets 141 

Weakest  Thing 41G 

Wine  of  Cyprus 307 

Wisdom  Unapplied 403 

Woman's  Shortcomings  423 

Woi  dsworlh.  On  a  Portrait  of,  by 

Haydou 340 

Work 343 

Work  and  Contemplation S'ta 

Years  Spinning,  A 420 


INDEX  OF  CONTENTS. 


VOLTT^IE  n. 


PAGE 

Amy's  Croelty 123 

Another  Version 168 

Antisrrophe 164 

"Aurora  Leigh 175 

Bacciius  and  Ariaune 164 

Best  Thing  in  the  World 126 

Bianca  amonz  the  Nightingales  .  115 

Casia  Guidi  Windows 38 

Catarina  to  Camoeus 15 

Child's  Grave  at  Florence . .  12 

Court  Lady,  A 9a 

Curse  for  a  Nation 105 

Curse  for  a  Nation— The  Curse  .  106 

Cyclops 152 

Dance,  The 95 

DauL'hters  of  Pandanis 168 

Denial,  A .   19 

De  Profundis 129 

Pal^eStep 10-s 

First  News  from  Villa  Frauca.. .  lo3 

rorci'd  Kecruit at  Solleriuo 139 

Garibaldi 140 

Hector  and  Andromaciie  . .   165 

How  Bacchus  Comforts  Ariadne.  163 
Mow    Bacchus    Finds     Ariadne 

ilenping- 161  I 

[nciUFious  22  I 

tiisufficiency 23  1 

Italy  and  the  World 102 

King's  Gift,  The 5 

K.iag  Victor  Emanuel  Entering 

Florence 134 

LastPoeuis 109 

Life  and  Love 19 

Little  Maitie 109 

Lord  Walter's  Wife 113 

May's  Love 123 

Mother  and  Poet 146 

Musical  Iu^'lTUIneDt 132 

U/llcart  ana  1 125 


TAai 

My  Kate lis 

Napoleon  III.  in  Italy 8 : 

Nature's  Kemorsus 14i- 

North  and  the  South,  The  150 

Ode  to  the  Swallow 169 

Only  a  Curl 141 

Paraphrase  on  Anacreon 169 

Paraphrase  on  Apuleius  154 

Paraphrase  on  Euripides 164 

Paraphrase  on  Heine 170 

Paraphrase  on  Hesiod 164 

Paraphrase  on  Homer 165 

Paraphrase  on  Nonuus 161 

Paraphrase  on  Theocritus loi 

Parting  Lovers 144 

Proof  and  Disproof 21 

Psyche  and  Cerberus 153 

Psvche     and     Cupid,    Marriage 

6{ 160 

Psyche  and  Pan 156 

Psyche  and  Prasperine 15i) 

Psyche  and  the  Eagle 158 

Psyche  and  Venus 160 

Psyclie  cairied   uy   Jjiercnry    to 

Olympus 160 

Psyche  Gazing  on  Cupid 154 

Psyche  Propitiatin'' Cures 157 

Psyche  Wafted  by  Zephyrs 156 

Song  for  the  Kagged  Schools  of 

London .....   120     j.     ^    ^K 

Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese  ...     23jtv^  vv* 

Summing  Up  in  Italy IS'' 

Sword  of  Castrucci  Castrucani..  136 
Tale   of  Villa  Franca  ;  Told  in 

Tuscany 97 

Translations 152 

View  Across  the  RoEian  Cam- 

pagna,  1,S61 143 

Void  iu  Law HI 

Where 's  Asrtt«» 126 


'DEDICATION. 


TO     MY    FATHER. 

When  your  eyes  fall  upon  this  page  of  dedication,  and  you  start  to  see  to 
whom  it  is  inscribed,  your  first  thought  will  be  of  the  time  far  off  when  I  was  a 
child  and  wrote  verses,  and  when  I  dedicated  them  to  you,  who  were  my  public 
and  my  critic.  Of  all  that  such  a  recollection  implies  of  saddest  and  sweetest  to 
both  of  us,  it  would  become  neither  of  us  to  speak  before  the  world  :  nor  would  it 
be  possible  for  \is  to  speak  of  it  to  one  another,  with  voices  that  did  not  falter. 
Enough,  tliat  what  is  in  my  heart  when  I  write  thus,  will  be  fully  known  to  yours. 

And  my  desire  is  that  you,  who  are  a  witness  how  if  this  art  of  poetry  had 
been  a  less  earnest  object  to  me,  it  must  have  fallen  from  exhausted  hands  before 
this  day, — that  you,  who  have  shared  with  me  in  things  bitter  and  sweet,  softening 
or  enhancing  them  every  day — that  you,  who  hold  with  me  over  all  sense  of  loss 
and  transiency,  one  hope  by  one  Name, — may  accept  the  inscription  of  these 
volumes,  the  exponents  of  a  few  years  of  an  existence  which  has  been  sustained 
and  comforted  by  you  as  well  as  given.  Somewhat  more  faint-hearted  than  I 
used  to  be,  it  is  my  fancy  thus  to  seem  to  return  to  a  visible  personal  dependence 
on  you,  ns  if  mdeeJ  I  were  a  child  again  ;  to  conjure  your  beloved  image  be- 
tween myself  and  the  public,  so  .is  to  be  sure  of  one  smile, — and  to  satisfy  my 
heart  while  I  sarvctify  my  ambition,  by  associating  with  the  great  pursuit  of  my 
life,  Its  tenderest  and  holiest  affection. 

Vour 

E   R.  B 


1.1  i;  iv'  A  iv  \ 

UN  1  V  K  i:S  {'V\    Oh' 

CALll""<5:^\:i  \ 


MEMOIR    OF 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


Born  in  Lonrinn  in  1809,  Elizabeth  Barrett  Barrett, 
educated  carefully  in  a  masculine  range  of"  studies,  became 
a  writer  for  periodicals  when  she  was  only  ten  years  old,  and 
published  lier  first  volume  in  1826,  entitled  "An  Essay  on 
Mind,  and  other  Poems."  Thougli  a  volume  of  inuch  prom- 
ise and  less  merit,  it  was,  as  the  work  of  a  girl  of  .sixteen,  a 
remarkable  performance,  but  wliicli  her  matured  judument 
of  later  years  led  her  to  suppress.  Her  next  book,  pub^Lslied 
in  1833.  met  with  a  like  fate  ;  wli^en  collecting  her  j)o.ins  for 
a  new  and  uniform  edition,  she  says  : 

"One  early  failure,  a  translation  of  the  Prometheus  of 
^schylus,  wliicli.  though  happily  free  of  the  current  of  pub- 
lication, may  be  reracml)ered  against  )ne  by  a  few  of  my  per- 
sonal friends,  I  liave  replaced  by  an  entirely  nevv  version, 
made  for  them  and  my  conscience,  in  expiation  of  a  sin  of 
my  youth,  with  the  sincerest  application  of  my  mature 
mind." 

In  1830.  Miss  ]\Iary  Russell  Mitford  made  her  acquaint- 
ance, and  she  thus  ])leasantly  describes  her  appearance  at 
this  time  (at  the  age  of  twenty-seven):  "She  certainly  was 
one  of  the  most  interesting  persons  that  I  had  ever  seen. 
Everybody  who  tlien  saw  her  said  the  same,  so  that  it  is  not 
merely  the  impression  of  my  partiality  or  my  enthusiasm. 
Of  a  slight,  delicate  figure,  witli  a  sliower  of  dark  curls  fall- 
ing  on  either  side  of  a  most  expressive  face,  large  tender 
eyes  richly  fringed  by  dark  eyelashes,  a  smile  like  a  sun- 
beam, and  such  a  look  of  youthfulness  that  1  liad  some  diffi- 
culty in  persuading  a  friend,  in  whose  carriage  we  went 
together  to  Chiswick.  that  the  translator  of  "The  Prome- 
theus' of  iEschylus,  the  authoress  of  the  'Essay  on  ^Miml,' 
was  old  enough  to  be  introduced  into  company,  in  tecii- 
iiical  language,  was  out.  'J'lirough  tlie  kindness  of  another 
invaluable  friend,  to  whom  I  owe  many  obligations,  but 
urine  so  great  as  this,  I  saw  much  of  her  during  my  stay  in 
town.  We  met  so  constantly  and  so  familiarly  tJiat.  in  spite 
of  the  difference  of  age,  intimacy  ripened  into  friendship, 
ttiid  after  my  return  into  the  country,  we  corresponded  freely 

5 


6  MEMOIROF 

mid  frequently,  her  letters  being  just  what  letters  oi;ght  (o 
lie — her  own  tulk  put  upon  paper. 

"  'I'lie  next  year,  1837,  was  a  painful  one  to  herself  and  to 
all  who  loved  her.  She  broke  a  blood-vessol  upon  the  lungs, 
which  did  not  heal.  If  there  had  been  consumption  in  the 
family,  that  disease  would  have  intervened.  'J'here  were  no 
seeds  of  the  fatal  English  malady  in  lier  constitution,  and 
she  escaped.  Still,  however,  the  vessel  did  not  lieal,  and, 
after  attending  her  for  above  a  twelvemonth  at  her  father's 
house  in  Wimpole  Street,  Dr.  Chambers,  on  tlie  approach  of 
winter,  ordered  her  to  a  milder  climate.  Her  eldest  brother, 
a  brother  in  heart  and  in  talent  worthy  of  such  a  sister, 
together  with  other  devoted  relatives,  accompanied  her  to 
'I'orquay,  and  there  occurred  the  fatal  event  which  saddened 
her  bloom  of  youth  and  gave  a  deeper  liue  of  thought  and 
I'eeling,  especially  of  devotional  feeling,  to  her  poetry.  I 
have  so  often  been  ask(>d  what  could  be  the  shadow  that  had 
passed  over  that  young  lieart.  that  now,  that  time  has  soft- 
ened the  first  agony,  it  seems  to  me  riglit  the  world  should 
hear  the  story  of  an  accident  in  which  tliere  was  much 
sorrow  but  no  blame. 

"  Nearly  a  twelvemonth  had  passed,  and  the  invalid,  still 
attended  by  her  affectionate  companions,  had  derived  much 
benefit  from  the  mild  sea-breezes  of  Devonshire.  One  fine 
summer  morning,  her  favorite  brother,  together  with  two 
other  fine  yoimg  men.  his  friends,  embarked  on  board  a  smdl 
sailing-vessel  for  a  trip  of  a  few  hours.  Excellent  sailors  all, 
and  familiar  with  the  coast,  they  sent  back  the  boatmen  and 
undertook  themselves  the  management  of  the  little  craft. 
Danger  was  not  dreamt  of  by  any  one  ;  after  llie  catastrophe 
no  one  could  divine  the  cause,  but  in  a  few  minutes  after 
their  embarkation,  and  in  sight  of  their  very  windows,  just 
as  they  were  crossuig  the  bar,  the  boat  went  down,  and  all 
who  Avere  in  her  perished.  Even  the  bodies  were  never' 
found. 

" 'J'his  tragedy  nearly  killed  Elizabeth  Barrett.  She  was 
utterly  prostrated  by  the  horror  and  the  grief,  and  by  a 
natural  but  a  most  unjust  feeling  that  she  had  been  in  some. 
sort  the  cause  of  this  great  misery.'  It  was  not  until  the  fol- 
lowing year  tliat  she  could  be  removed  in  an  invalid  carriage, 
and  by  journeys  of  twenty  miles  a  day,  to  her  aflflicted  family 
and  her  London  home.  The  house  that  she  occupied  at  Tor. 
quay  had  been  chosen  as  one  of  the  most  sheltered  in  th«5 
place.  It  stood  &*  the  bottom  of  the  cliffs,  almost  close  to 
the  sea:  and  she  toid  me  herself,  that  during  that  wnole 
winter  the  sound  of  the  waves  rang  in  her  ears  like  the 
moans  of  one  dying.  Still  she  clung  to  literature  and  to 
Greek;  in  all  probability  she  would  have  died  without  that 
wholesome  diversion  to  her  thoughts.  Her  medical  attend- 
ant did  not  always  understand  this.  To  prevent  the  remon- 
strances of  her  friendly  physician.  Dr.  Barry,  she  caused  a 
small  edition  of  Plato  to  be  so  bound  as  to  resemble  a  novel. 
He  did  not  know,  skilful  and  kind  though  he  were,  that  tc 


ELIZABETH      BARRETT      BROWNING.  1 

ler  such  books  woro  not  an  arduous  and  painful  study,  but  a 
consolation  and  a  delight. 

"  llcturned  to  London,  she  began  the  life  Mhich  she  con- 
tinued for  so  many  years:  confined  to  one  large  and  com- 
modious but  darkened  chamber,  admitting  oidy  lior  own 
affectionate  family  and  a  few  devoted  friends  (I,  myself,  l\ave 
often  joyfully  travelled  five-and-forty  miles  to  see  her,  and  , 
returned  tlie  same  evening,  witliout  entering  another  Itousc); 
reading  almost  every  book  worth  reading  in  almost  every 
language,  and  giving  herself,  heart  and  soul,  to  that  poetiy 
of  which  she  seemed  born  to  be  the  priestess. 

''  Gradually  her  health  improved.  About  four  years  ago 
she  married  Mr.  Browning,  (in  the  autumn  of  1846)  and  im- 
mediately accompanied  "him  to  Pisa,  'i'hey  then  settled  at 
Florence;  and  this  summer  (1851)  I  have  had  the  exquisite 
pleasure  of  seeing  her  once  more  in  London,  with  a  lovely 
boy  at  her  knee,  almost  as  well  as  ever,  and  telling  tales  of 
Italian  rambles,  of  losing  herself  in  chestnut  forests,  and 
scrambling  on  mule-back  up  the  sources  of  extinct  vol- 
canoes." 

In  1838  she  published  a  volume  entitled  "The  Seraphim, 
and  other  Poems,"  of  w'hich  the  principal  is  a  lyrical  drama, 
embodying  the  thouglits  and  emotions  which  may  be  sup- 
posed to  be  awakened  in  angelic  nature?  by  the  si)ectacle  of 
the  crucifixion:  a  theme  to  tax  the  highest  powers,  and  from 
which  the  highest  powers  would  do  well  to  recoil.  'I'his  pro- 
duction, as  well  as  her  "  Drama  of  Exile,"  a  subsequent 
work  in  which  the  theme  is  drawn  from  the  fall  of  man,  is  a 
very  bold  but  not  vevy  successful  effort  to  soar  into  heights 
of  speculation  and  invention,  in  which  no  wings  less  strong 
than  Dante's  or  ]\lilton's  can  bear  the  poet. 

In  her-kome  in  London,  he*'  bfo  f^i-  mj^nv  yp;irs  wag  Ih at 
oFa  confirmed  and  seemingly  hopeless  invalid.  An  exile 
from  S()cTety;;3lui!3IiI  liot'^c^^^^^  h^X  ru< mi',  and^  siiw  only  the 
members  of  her  ow^n  family,  and  occasionally  a  few  intimate 
friends :  her  chosen  companions  being  a  Hebrew  Bible,  a 
shelf-full  of  large-print  Greek  books,  and  no  small  range  of 
polyglot  reading.  The  long  and  dreary  hours  of  illness  were 
soothed  by  compostttoiTsiutl _s t iury'^^~^re"SOiTght  refreshm ent 
and  oblivion'of  pain,  not  in  those  lighter  forms  of  literature 
which  usually  soothe  the  languor  of  a  sick  coucli,  but  in 
those  grave  and  deep  tasks  which  would  seem  to  demand 
masculine  powers  in  their  best  estate.  8he  published  in  The 
Atheneum  about  this  time  ''  Essays  on  the  Greek  Christian 
Poets" — some  of  the  fruits  of  her  wide  and  patient  research. 

In  1844  the  first  collected  edition  of  her  poems  was  pub- 
lished, in  two  volumes,  with  a  characteristic  and  affectionate 
dedication  to  her  father.  In  tliis  her  earlier  productions 
were  revised,  and  many  pieces  appeared  for  the  first  time  in 
print.  Among  these  last  was  "Lady  Geraldinc's  Courtship," 
and,  as  Miss  Mitford  says,  "Perhaps  the  very  finest  of  Mrs 
Browning's  poems,  written  (to  meet  the  double  exigency  of 
completing  the  uniformity  of  the  original  two  volumes,  and 


8  MEMOIROl' 

of  catcliing  the  vessel  that  was  to  carry  the  proofs  to  Araer 
ica)  in  the  incredible  space  of  twelve  honrs.  That  delicious 
ballad  must  have  been  iyini?  unborn  in  her  head  and  in  her 
heart;  but  when  we  think  of  its  length  and  of  its  beauty, 
the  shortness  of  time  in  which  it  was  put  into  form  appears 
one  of  the  most  stupendous  efforts  of  the  human  mind.  And 
the  writer  was  a  delicate  woman,  a  contirmed  invalid,  just 
dressed  and  supported  for  two  or  three  hours  from  her  bed 
to  lier  sofa,  and  so  back  again.  Let  me  add,  too,  that  the 
exertion  might  have  been  avoided  by  a  new  arrangement  of 
the  smaller  poems,  if  Miss  Barrett  would  only  have  consented 
to  place  'Pan  is  Dead'  at  the  end  of  the  first  volume  instead 
of  the  second.  The  difference  does  not  seem  much:  ln;t  she 
had  promised  Mr.  Kenyon  that  'Fan  is  Dead'  should  con- 
clude the  collection;  and  Mr.  Kenyon  was  out  of  town  and 
could  not  release  her  word.  To  tiiis  delicate  conscientious 
ness  we  owe  one  of  the  most  charming  love  stories  in  any 
language." 

In  this  poem  there  was  a  graceful  compliment  to  Mr; 
Browning,  to  whom,  it  is  reported,  she  liad  not  previously 
been  personally  known. 

Mr.  Ilillard,  of  Boston,  mmtious  in  the  New  Aim  rican 
Cyclopedia  a  story  of  this  happy  allusion. 

*• 'I'he  story."  he  says,  '-has  ijeen  told  to  ns— we  w  ill  not 
vouch  for  its  truth,  as  'imaginations  as  one  would'  an-  apt 
to  l)e  interpolated  into  such  incidents — that  the  grateful  poet 
called  to  express  in  person  his  acknowledgments,  and  that 
he  was  admitted  into  the  invalid's  presence  by  the  iia])py 
mistake  of  a  new  servant.  At  any  rate,  he  did  see  her,  and 
had  permission  to  renew  his  visit.  The  mutual  attachment 
grew  more  and  more  powerful,  and  the  convergence  more 
and  more  rapid;  the  acquaintance  became  the  friend. and  the 
friend  was  transformed  into  the  lover.  Kind  physicians  and 
tender  nurses  had  long  watched  over  the  couch  of  sickness ; 
but  love,  the  magician,  brought  restorative  influences  bel'ore 
unknown:  and  her  health  was  so  far  improved  that  she  did 
not  hesitate  to  accept  the  hand  tiiat  was  offered  to  lier.  She 
became  the  wife  of  Robert  Browning  in  the  autumn  of 
1846." 

This  incident  in  the  sick-room  is  charming ;  fit  to  liappen 
to  two  poets.  But  did  it  occur  in  reality?  It  may  be  men- 
tioned that  before  the  marriage,  so  strong  and  so  lasting  w-vs 
the  impression  still  remaining  on  her  mind  concerning  h^r 
brother's  death,  that  she  exacted  a  promise  from  Mr.  Hrown- 
hig  that  he  would  never  refer  to  the  subject.  This  promise 
was  kept  for  years. 

So  much  of  the  courtship  as  the  world  has  a  right  to  know, 
she  hersetnias  confessed,  witli  rare  grace  of  expT^^sion  as 
well  as  exquisite  depth  and  tenderness  of  feeling,  in  that  re- 
markable series  of  "  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese."  which 
she  might  have  named  with  an  English  name.  Sonnets  fronj 
Her  own  Heart.  The  Sonnets  appeared  for  the  first  time  in 
the  second  edition  of  hei  collected  poems,  published  in  1H(.>0. 


KLIZABETII      IJARRETT      BROWNING  9 

Often  as  tlic  passion  of  love  lias  bci-n  treatt'd  by  popts,  it 
eannot  be  denied  tliat  Mrs.  Brownin,;^  has  here  expressed  and 
delineated  it  in  a  manner  entirely  original,  and  thrown  upon 
it  the  clenms  of  a  light  at  once  tender  and  spiritual,  which 
can  only  be  paralleled  in  the  immortal  lines  in  whicli  Dante 
has  emhalmed  the  name  of  Beatrice.  At  the  wedding  the 
bride  rose  From  her  sick-bed  to  receive  the  wedding-ring  upon 
her  linger.  It  is  said  that  her  father  disapproved  the  match. 
This  is  probably  true,*for  the  marriage  proved  a  happy  one. 
IJe  never  added  his  blessing. 

Mr.  Theodore  Tilton  says,  .in  liis  "  Memorial."  "After  the 
nu])tials  he  led  her  immediately  to  Italy,  whither  she  will- 
ingly followed;  to  the  land  of  song,  of  art.  of  romance,  and 
of  the  dead  past.  But  tlie  dead  past  was  already  turning  in 
its  grave  for  resurrection  into  life  and  a  future.  The  sym- 
pathies of  the  Brownings  for  Italy  were  as  deep-hearted  as 
Garibaldi's.  Robert  Browning  was  one  of  the  few  gieat 
Englishmen  wlio,  after  Milton,  loved  Italy.  His  wife,  loving 
him,  loved  what  he  loved.  That  love  had  a  fruition  wh'ch 
proved  it  not  wasted.  For  the  Italy  she  found,  and  the  Italy 
she  left,  were  not  the  same.  AVhen  that  wedding-tour  ended 
at  Pisa,  she  saw  a  shadovv  resting  on  the  sunniest  land  in 
Europe.  Night  was  on  the  nation.  But  the  poet  was  tlie 
prophet.  In  her  new  home  she  sat  and  watched  for  the 
day-dawn  through  Casa  Guidi  windows.  It  waited  long,  but 
dawned  at  last,  and  she  saw  it — and  then  died !  Is  there  not 
more  than  a  sick-bed  meaning  in  the  brief  story  of  the  tele- 
graph that  she  expired 'half  an  hour  aftei-  dai/breakP'  For 
the  dream  of  her  life — a  free  and  united  Italy — was  finally 
fulfilled  in  Napoleon's  formal  recognition  of  Italian  freedom 
and  unity,  in  the  very  toeek  she  died!  The  full  day-dawn  of 
Italy  was  to  shine  from  France;  and  she  saw  it  and  died — 
just  after  the  daybreak." 

In  1849  their  happiness  was  completed  by  the  birih  of  a 
son,  an  only  child,  thus  rounding  the  circle  of  her  womanly 
experiences,  and  giving  her  the  power  to  feel,  in  her  ov>n 
consciousness,  all  that  is  comprehended  in  the  words  daugh- 
ter, sister,  wife,  and  mother.  In  1851  she  published  "Casa 
Guidi  Windows."  a  poem  on  some  of  the  social  and  political 
aspects  of  modern  Italy,  the  title  of  which' is  taken  from  the 
name  of  the  residence  occupied  by  her  and  her  husband  in 
Florence.  In  185G  she  published  "  Aurora  liCigh,"  a  nar- 
rative poem  in  nine  books  ;  a  sort  of  versified  novel,  of  whicli 
the  subject,  characters,  and  incidents  are  taken  from  English 
tife  and  manners  of  the  present  day. 

•'Some  of  her  p]nglish  opinions  were  more  high-minded 
and  noble,  more  generous  and  Christian,  than  many  of  her 
countrymen  wislied  an  Englishwoman  to  entertain.  For  in 
stance,  she  was  called  visionary  and  impracticable  for  such 
words  as  these : 

*"I  confess  that  I  dream  of  the  day  when  an  English  states- 
man shall  arise  with  a  heart  too  large  for  England,  having 
5ourage,  in  the  face  of  his  countrymen,  to  assert  of  some 


10  MEMOIR     OF 

BUj?gestive  policy — "  This  is  good  for  your  trade ;  this  is  nece» 
sary  for  your  domination  ;  but  it  will  vex  a  people  hard  by  , 
it  will  hurt  a  people  farther  off;  it  will  profit  nothing  to  tlie 
general  liumanity ;  therefore,  away  with  it !  It  is  not  for 
you  or  me."  When  a  British  minister  dares  to  speak  so,  and 
when  a  British  public  applauds  him  speaking,  then  shall  the 
nation  be  so  glorious,  that  her  praise  instead  of  exploding 
from  within,  from  loud  civic  mouths,  shall  come  to  her  from 
without,  as  all  worthy  praise  must,  froiii  the  alliances  she  has 
fostered  and  from  the  populations  she  has  saved.' 

"Mrs. Browning  lived  in  one  house  in  Florence  for  fourteen 
years,  and  went  out  of  it  to  her  grave. 

" '  From  Casa  Guidi'a  windows  I  looked  out.' " 

"  Mr.  Hillard,  who  visited  the  Brownings  at  Florence  in 
1847,  says  in  his  'Six  Months  in  Italy:'  'A  happier  home 
and  a  more  perfect  union  than  theirs  it  is  not  easy  to  im- 
agine;  and  this  completeness  arises  not  only  from  the  raie 
qualities  which  each  possesses,  but  from  their  perfect  ada]). 
tution  to  each  otlier.  .  .  As  he  is  full  of  manly  ]iower,  so  she 
is  a  type  of  the  most  sensitive  and  delicate  witmaniiood.  .  . 
1  have  Tiever  seen  a  liuman-  frame  which  seemed  so  nearly  a 
transparent  veil  for  a  celestial  and  immortal  spirit.  Slie  is  a 
soul  of  fire  enclosed  in  a  shell  of  pearl.  .  .  Nor  is  she  more 
remarkable  for  genius  and  learning,  thnn  for  sweetness  of 
temper,  tenderness  of  heart,  depth  of  fr-iling,  and  purity  of 
spirit.  It  is  a  privilege  to  know  such  beings  singly  and  sep- 
arately, but  to  see  their  powers  quickened,  and  tlieii'  happi- 
ness rounded,  by  the  sacred  tie  of  marriage,  is  a  cause  ibr 
peculiar  and  lasting  gratitude.  A  union  so  complete  as  theirs 
— in  which  the  m.ind  has  nothing  to  crave  nor  the  heart  to 
sigh  foi- — is  cordial  to  behold  and  sootliing  to  remember.'  " 

From  Henry  T.  Tuckerman's  P^ssay  on  Mrs.  BroMning,  in 
his  "Thoughts  on  the  Poets,"  we  extract  the  following.  Mr 
Tuckerman  was  one  of  the  earliest  of  American  criUcs  tc 
give  her  a  word  of  honest  praise  : 

"  It  is  pleasant  and  memorable  to  feel,  as  we  lament  the 
departure  of  this  endeared  child  of  song,  that  the  earliest  if 
not  the  most  earnest  recognition  of  her  merits  came  from 
this  side  of  the  Atlantic:  her  readers  in  America  far  out- 
number those  in  England  ;  among  our  countrymen  and  coun- 
trywomen she  found  attached  friends,  gained  tlirough  personal 
intercourse  in  Italy,  and  by  correspondence.  It  is  remark- 
able that  the  uniform  testimony  of  the  former  gives  evidence 
that  the  interest  of  Mrs.  Browning's  character  transcended 
that  of  her  writings ;  the  woman  charmed  and  cheerod  even 
more  than  the  author;  or  rather  the  'daily  beauty'  of  her 
life  made  those  wlio  enjoyed  her  intimacy  attacli  a  value  and 
un  interest  to  her  personal  mfluence  more  endearing  than 
fame  or  genius.  There  was  something  so  genuine,  earnest, 
candid,  and  humane  in  her  manners,  aspect,  and  conversa> 
tion,   that   people  of  every   class,    calibre,    and   nationality 


ELIZABETH      BARRETT      BROWNING.  11 

found  in  hor  tlu*  triilli.  the  love,   and   tl\f>   faith   which   lici 
verse  prochiiins  and  celebrates. 

"  Althouiih  so  lonjr  an  invalid,  Mrs.  Browning's  death  was 
unexpected  at  the  time.  Those  who  recocnize  in  her  re- 
markable life  a  providential  e.xperiencc.  will  feel  the  same 
beniiin  coincidences  in  the  circumstances  of  her  departure: 
feeble,  and  for  some  time  undecided  as  10  her  place  of  sojo\irn 
for  the  summer,  she  p;reatly  enjoyed  the  return  to  Florence, 
and  to  the  dwellinc^  which  had  witnessed"  so  many  happy 
hours  of  domestic  love  and  social  communion — where  some 
of  her  best  poetry  was  written,  and  her  child  was  born.  Iler 
spirits  revived  at  the  siffht  of  this  endeared  home  abroad. 
She  looked  cheerfully  upon  the  old  tapestry  and  paintings, 
the  effigies  of  her  favorite  poets,  tlie  familiar  chair  and 
table,  around  which,  as  around  a  heart-reared  throne,  her 
friends  used  to  gather;  she  went  out  in  the  summer  twilight, 
leaning  upon  her  husband's  arm.  upon  the  pleasant  balcony, 
with  its  clustering  shrubs  and  flowers,  and  greeted  the  dim 
but  familiar  walls  of  the  old  church  of  Santa  Felice  opposite 
— talking  gratefully  the  wliile,  of  Italy,  of  mutual  friends, 
and  of  future  plans  :  her  mind  and  affections  were  never 
more  strong  and  vivid  ;  but  nature  was  already  yielding  in 
an  organization  of  nnarvellous  delicacy;  and  tliat  slight 
figure,  with  the  large,  deep  and  tender  eyes,  and  clustering 
brown  hair,  was  about  to  vanish  from  the  scene  it  had  made 
so  precious  and  hallowed.  Early  on  the  morning  of  the 
20th  of  June,  1801.  with  pleasant  words  on  her  lips,  uncon- 
scious that  the  sleep  that  stole  over  her  senses  was  that  of 
death,  this  gifted  and  gracious  woman  peacefully  expired. 
In  the  English  burying-ground,  without  the  gates  of  Flor- 
ence, accompanied  by  her  terribly  bereaved  husband  and 
l)oy,  and  a  few  friends,  the  remains  of  Mrs.  Browning  were 
laid  in  earth;  and  her  grave  is  already  the  shrine  of  pilgrims 
from  both  sides  of  the  sea.  The  city  where  she  so  long 
dwelt,  and  whose  struggle  for  freedom  she  so  memorably 
sang— according  to  ar.  old  but  rarely  revived  mediieval  ens- 
tom-;-placed  on  Casa  Guidi  this  inscription  of  love  and 
honor  to  her  memory  : 

Qui   SeUISSE   E   MORI 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING, 

Che  in  cuoke  dj.  Donna  Seppe  unire 

■     Saprenza  de  Dotto,  e  FacuNdia  di  Poeta; 

Fece  del  suo  auueo  verso,  anello, 

Fka  Italia  e  Inguilterra. 

Pose  questa  Me.moria 

Firenze  grata 

A.  D.  1861. 

Which  may  be  rendered  thus : 


12  MEMOIROF 

Here  wrote  akd  died 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING, 

Who  in  her  woman's  heart  united 

The  5VISDOM  op  a  Sage  and  the  eloquence  ok  a  Poet 

Wll  H  HER  GOLDEN  VERSE  SHE  LINKED  ItALY  TO  ENGLAND 

Florence  grateful  placed 

This  Memorial 

A.  D.  1861. 

The  followinof  touching  and  appreciative  letter  appeared  in 

the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  September,  1861,  written  by  W.  W. 

Story,  and  dated 

"Florence,  July  5th,  1861. 
******** 
"  Her  life  was  one  long,  large-souled,  large-hearted  prayer 

for  the   triumph  of  Right,  Justice,  Liberty  ;  and    siie  who 

lived  for  others  was 

'  pnet  tnie, 
Wlio  died  for  Beauty,  as  iiiartyrs  do 
For  Tiutli — the  ends  being  scarcely  two.' 

Beauty 4<;as  truth  with  her,  the  wife,  mother,  and  poet,  three 
in  one.  and  such  an  earthly  trinity  as  God  had  never  before^ 
blessed  the  world  with. 

"  Tliis  day  week,  at  half-past  four  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
Mrs.  Browning  died.  A  great  invalid  from  girlhood,  owing 
to  an  unfortunate  accident,  Mrs.  Browning's  life  was  a  prcr- 
longed  combat  with  disease  thereby  engendered ;  and  had 
not  God  given  her  extraordinary  vitality  of  spirit.  Ihe  frail 
body  could  never  have  borne  up  against  Hie  suffering  to 
which  it  was  doomed.  Probably  there  never  was  a  gre'ater 
instance  of  the  power  of  genius  over  the  weakness^^of  \]w 
flesh.  Confined  to  her  room  in  the  country  or  city  home 
of  her  father  in  England,  ElizabetJi  Barrett  developed  into 
the  great  artist  and  scholar.  From  her  couch  went  forth 
those  poems  which  have  crowned  lier  as  'the  world's  greatest 
poetess;'  and  on  that  couch,  where  she  lay  almost  speechless 
at  times,  and  seeing  none  but  those  friends  dearest  and  near- 
est, the  soul-woman  struck  deep  into  the  roots  of  Latin  and 
Greek,  and  drank  of  their  vital  juices.  We  hold  in  kindly 
affection  her  learned  and  blind  teacher.  Hui-h  Stuart  Boyd, 
who,  she  tells  us,  was  '  enthusiastic  for  the  trood  and  the 
beautiful,  and  one  of  the  most  simple  and  upricht  of  liuman 
beings.'  'i'he  love  of  this  grateful  scholar,  when  called  upon 
to  mourn  the  good  man's  death,  embalms  his  memory  amon" 
her  Sonnets.  " 

'^  What  high  honor  the  scholar  did  her  friend  and  teacher, 
and  how  nobly  she  could  interpret  the  'rhythmic  Greek,'  let 
'    ";  decide  who  have  read  Mrs.  Browning's  translations  of 
letheus  Bound.'  and  Bion's  '  Lament  from  Adonis.' 


ELIZABETH      BARRETT     BROWNING.  13 

"  Tin'firisoned  within  the  fflur  walls  of  her  room,  with  books 
for  her  world  and  large  humanity  for  her  thouuht,  the  lamp 
of  life  liiirning  so  low  at  times  that  a  feather  would  !)e  placed 
on  her  lips  to  prove  that  there  was  still  breath,  Elizabeth 
Barrett  read  and  wrote,  and  'heard  the  nations  praising'  her 
'  far  off.'     She  loved 

'  Art  for  art, 
And  good  for  God  himself,  the  essential  Good,' 

antil  destiny  (-a  destiny  with  God  in  it)  brought  two  poets 
face  to  face  and  heart  to  heart.     Mind  had  met  mind  and  re- 
cognized its  peer  previously  to  that  personal  interview  which 
made   them  one  in  soul;    but  it  was  not  until  after  an  ac- 
quaintance of  two  years  that  Elizabeth  Barrett  and  Rol    rt 
Browning  were  united  in  marriage  for  time  and  for  eter 
a  marriage  the  like  of  whicli  can  seldom  be  recorded.    A 
wealth  of  love  she  could.give  is  evidenced  in  those  exqi; 
Sonnets  purporting  to  be  from  the  Portuguese,  the  a'j 
being  too  modest  to  christen  them  by  their  right  name, 
nets  from  the  Fleart.     None  liave  failed  to  read  the  i 
through  this  slight  veil,  and  to  see  the  woman  more  tha- 
poet  in  such  lines  as  these : 

'I  yield  the  p;rave  for  thy  s;ike,  and  exchanfje 
My  neiir  sweet  view  of  lieaven  for  earth  with  thee!' 

We  have  only  to  turn  to  the  concluding  poem  in  '  Men 
Women,'  inscribed  to  E.  B.  B.,  to  see  how  reciprocal 
this  great  love. 

"From  their  wedding-day  Mrs.  Browning  seemed  to  b 
dowed  willi  new  life.     Her  health  visibly  improved,  an; 
was  enabled  to  make  e.xcursions  in  England  prior  to  li'' 
parture  for  the  land  of  her  adoption.  Italy,  where  she  !■ 
a  second  and  a  dearer  home.     For  nearly  fifteen  years 
ence  and  the  Brownings  have  been  one  in  the  thougj, 
many  English  and  Americans;  and  Casa  Ouidi,  wliic 
been   immortalized    by  Mrs.  Browning's   genius,  will   . 
dear  to  the  Anglo-Saxon    traveller   as  Milton's   Flor. 
residence  lias  been  heretofore.    'I'hose  who  now  pass  bj 
Guidi  fancy  an  additional  gloom  has  settled   upon  the 
face  of  the  old  palace,  and  grieve  to  think  that  thoi^e 
dows  from  which  a  spirit-face  witnessed  two  Italian   i 
tions,  and  those  large  mysterious  rooms  where  a  'jpir 
translated  the  great   Italian   Cau.se   into  burning  ve^^ 
pleaded  the  rights  of  humanity  in  'Aurora  Leigh,'  aie 
after  to  be  tlie  passing  homes  of  ihe  thoughtless  or  th 
sympathizing. 

'•  Those  who  have  known  Ca.sa  Guidi  as  it  was  could  h 
enter  the  loved  rooms  now  and  speak  above  a  whisper, 
who  have  been  so  favored  can  never  forget  the  square   ni 
room,  with  its  great   picture  and   piano-forte,  at  which  the 
boy  Browning  passed  many  an  hour — the  little  dining-room 
covered  with  tapestry,  and  where  hung  mefiailions  of  Ten- 
nyson, Carlyle,  and  Robert  Browning — the  long  room  filled 
with  plaster  casts  and  studies,  which  was  Mr.  Browning's  re- 

2 


i4  MEMOIBOF 

treat — and,  doares  t  of  all,  the  large  drawing-room,  where  sht 
always  sat.  It  0{»ens  upon  a  balcony  filled  with  plants,  and 
looks  out  upon  the  old  iron-gray  church  of  Santa  Felice. 
There  was  something  about  this  room  that  seemed  to  make 
it  a  proper  and  especial  haunt  fur  poets.  The  dark  shadows 
and  subdued  light  gave  it  a  dreamy  look,  which  was  enhanced 
by  the  tapestry-covered  walls  and  the  old  pictures  of  saints 
that  looked  out  sadly  from  their  carved  frames  of  black  wood. 
Large  book-cases,  constructed  of  specimens  of  Florentine 
carving  selected  by  Mr.  Browning,  were  brimming  over  with 
wise-looking  books.  Tables  were  covered  with  more  gayly 
bound  volumes,  the  gifts  of  brother  authors.  Dante's  grave 
profile,  a  cast  of  Keats'  face  and  brow  taken  after  death,  a 
pen-and-ink  sketch  of  Tennyson,  the  genial  face  of  John 
Kenyon,  Mrs.  Browning's  good  friend  and  relative,  little 
paintings  of  the  boy  Browning,  all  attracted  the  eye  in  turn, 
and  gave  rise  to  a  thousand  musings.  A  quaint  mirror, 
easy-chairs  and  safas,  and  a  himdred  nothings  that  always 
add  an  indescribable  charm,  were  all  massed  in  this  room. 
But  the  glory  of  all,  and  that  which  sanctified  all,  was  seated 
in  a  low  arm-chair  near  the  door.  A  small  table,  strewn 
witli  writing-materials,  books,  and  newspapers,  was  always 
by  her  side. 

"  To  those  who  loved  Mrs.  Browning  (and  to  know  her  was 
to  love  her)  she  was  singularly  attractive.  Hers  was  not  the 
beauty  of  feature;  it  was  the  loftier  beauty  of  expression. 
Her  slight  figure  seemed  hardly  large  enough  to  contain  the 
great  heart  that  beat  so  fervently  within,  and  the  soul  that 
expanded  more  and  more  as  one  year  gave  place  to  another. 
It  was  difiicult  to  believe  that  such  a  fairy  hand  could  pen 
thoughts  of  such  ponderous  weight,  or  that  such  a  '  still 
small  voice '  could  utter  them  with  equal  force.  But  it  was 
Mrs.  Browning's  face  upon  which  one  loved  to  gaze — that 
face  and  head  which  almost  lost  themselves  in  the  thick 
curls  of  her  dark  brown  hair.  That  jealous  hair  could  not  hide 
the  broad,  fair  forehead,  'royal  with  the  truth,'  as  smooth  as 
any  girl's,  and 

' Too  laige  for  wreath  of  modem  wont.' 

Her  large  brown  eyes  were  beautiful,  and  were  in  truth  the 
windows  of  her  soul.  They  combined  the  confidingness  of  a 
child  with  the  poet-passion  of  heart  and  of  intellect ;  and  in 
gazing  into  them  it  was  easy  to  read  why  Mrs.  Browning 
wrote.  God's  inspiration  was  her  motive  power,  and  in  her 
eyes  was  the  reflection  of  this  higher  light. 

'  And  her  smile  it  seemed  half  holy, 
As  if  drawn  fiom  thoughts  more  far 
Than  our  common  jestiugs  are.' 

"  Mrs.  Browning's  character  was  well  nigh  perfect.  Pauem. 
in  long  suffering,  she  never  spoke  of  herself,  except  when  the 
subject  was  forced  upon  her  by  others,  and  then  with  no  com- 
plaint- She  judged  not,  saving  when  great  principles  were 
imperilled,  and  then  was  ready  to  sacrifice  herself  upon  the 


ELIZABETH      BARRETT     BROW  NINO.  15 

ftlta:  of  Rijihl.  Forgiving  as  she  wislied  to  be  i'orgivon,  none 
approached  her  with  niisgivings,  knowing  her  magnanimity. 
She  was  ever  ready  to  accord  sympathy  to  all,  takinjif  an 
eancst  interest  in  tiie  most  insignificant,  and  so  hiiral)le  in 
her  greatness  that  her  friends  looked  upon  lier  as  a  divinity 
among  women.  Thoughtful  in  the  smallest  things  for  others, 
she  seemed  to  give  little  thought  to  herself;  and  believing  in 
universal  goodness,  her  nature  was  free  from  worldly  suspi- 
cions.  'J'he  first  to  see  merit,  she  was  the  last  to  censure 
faults,  and  gave  the  praise  that  s,he/eU  with  a  generous  hand. 
No  one  So  heartily  rejoiced  at  the  success  of  others,  no  one 
was  so  modest  in  her  own  triurnplis,  which  she  looked  upon 
more  as  a  favor  of  which  she  was  unworthy  than  as  a  right 
due  to  her.  She  loved  all  who  ofiered  her  affection,  and 
would  solace  and  advise  with  any.  She  watched  the  pro- 
gress of  the  world  with  tireless  eye  and  beating  heart,  and, 
anxious  for  the  good  of  the  whole  world,  scorned  to  take  an 
insular  view  of  any  political  question.  With  her  a  political 
question  was  a  moral  question  as  well.  Mrs.  IJn'wning  l»e- 
longed  to  no  ])arlicuUir  country;  the  world  was  inscribed 
upon  the  banner  under  wliich  she  fought.  Wrong  was  her 
enemy;  against  this  she  wrestled,  in  whatever  part  of  the 
globe  it  was  to  be  found. 

"  A  noble  devotion  to  and  faith  in  the  regeneration  of  Italy 
was  a  prominent  feature  in  Mrs.  Browning's  life.  To  her, 
Italy  was  from  the  first  a  living  fire,  not  the  bed  of  dead 
aslies  at  which  the  world  was  wont  to  sneer.  Her  trust  in 
Ood  and  the  People  was  supreme;  and  when  the  Revolution 
of  1848  kindled  the  passion  of  liberty  from  the  Alps  to  Sicily, 
she,  in  common  with  many  another  earnest  spirit,  believed 
that  the  hour  for  the  fulfilment  of  her  hopes  had  arrived. 
Her  joyful  enlhusiasm  at  the  Tuscan  uprising  found  vent  in 
the  'Eureka'  which  she  sang  with  so  much  fervor  in  Part 

First  of  '  Casa  Guidi  Windows.' 

**  *  *  *  «  «  * 

"  The  second  Part  of  '  Casa  Guidi  Windows '  is  a  sad  se- 
quel to  the  First,  but  Mrs.  Browning  does  not  deride.  She 
bows  before  the  inevitable,  but  is  firm  in  her  belief  of  a 
future  living  Italy. 

******** 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  great  thankfulness  that  God  permitted 
Mrs.  Browning  to  witness  the  second  Italian  revolution  before 
claiming  her  for  heaven.  No  patriot  Italian,  of  whatever  high 
degree,  gave  greater  sympathy  to  the  aspirations  of  1859  than 
Mrs.  Browning,  an  echo  of  whicli  the  world  has  read  in  her 
*  Poems  before  Congress '  and  siiU  later  contributions  to  the 
New  York  'Independent.'  Great  was  the  moral  courage  of 
this  frail  woman  to  publish  the  '  Poems  before  Congress  '  at 
a  time  when  England  was  most  suspicious  of  Napoleon. 
Greater  were  her  convictions,  when  she  abased  England  and 
exalted  France  for  the  cold  neutrality  of  the  one  and  the 
generous  aid  of  the  other  in  this  war  of  Italian  independence. 
Bravely  did  she  bear  up  against  the  angrv  criticism  excited 


16  MEMOIROr 

by  such  anti-English  sentiment.  Strong  in  her  right,  Mrs 
Browning  was  willing  to  brave  the  storm,  confident  thai 
truth  would  prevail  in  the  end.  Apart  from  certain  tours  di 
force  in  rhythm,  there  is  much  that  is  grand  and  as  much 
that  is  beautiful  in  these  Poems,  while  there  is  the  stamp  of 
potoer  upon  every  page.  It  is  felt  that  a  great  soul  is  in  earn- 
est  about  vital  principles,  and  earnestness  of  itself  is  a  giant 
as  rare  as  forcible.  Though  there  are  few  now  who  look  upon 
Napoleon  as 

'  Larger  bo  much  by  the  heart' 

than  Others  '  who  have  governed  and  led,'  there  are  many 
who  acknowledge  him  to  be 

'  Larger  so  much  by  the  head,' 

and  regard  him  as  slie  did— Italy's  best  friend  in  the  hour  of 
need.  Her  disciples  are  increasing,  and  soon  '  Napoleon  III. 
in  Italy'  will  be  read  with  the  admiration  which  it  deserves. 

"Beautiful  in  its  pathos  is  the  poem  of  'A  Court  Lady,' 
and  there  are  few  satires  more  biting  than  'An  August 
Voice,'  wliich,  as  an  interpretation  of  tlie  Napoleonic  words, 
is  perfect..  Nor  did  she  fail  to  vindicate  the  Peace  of  Yilla- 
franca. 

*»»♦***# 

"  And  truly,  what  Napoleon  then  failed,  from  opposition,  to 
accomplish  by  the  sword,  has  since  been,  tj  a  great  extent, 
accomplished  by  diplomacy. 

"But  though  Mrs.  Biowning  wrote  her  ''i'ale  of  Villa- 
franca'  in  full  faith,  after  many  a  mile-stone  in  time  lay  be- 
tween her  and  i\iQfact.  her  friends  remember  how  the  woman 
bent  and  was  well-nigh  crushed,  as  by  a  thunderbolt,  when 
the  intelligence  of  this  Imperial  Treaty  was  fii-st  received. 
Coming  so  quickly  upon  the  heels  of  the  victories  of  Solfe- 
rino  and  San  Martino.  it  is  no  marvel  that  what  stunned 
Italy  should  have  almost  killed  Mrs.  Browning.  That  it 
hastened  her  into  the  grave  is  beyond  a  doubt,  as  she  never 
fully  shook  off  the  severe  attack  of  illness  occasioned  by  this 
check  upon  her  life-hopes.  Tlie  summer  of  1859  was  a  weary, 
suffering  season  for  her  in  consequence;  and  although  the 
following  winter,  passed  in  Rome,  heljjed  to  repair  the  evil 
that  had  been  wrouglit,  a  heavy  cold,  caught  at  the  end  of 
the  season  (and  for  the  sake  of  seeing  Rome's  gift  of  swcids 
to  Napoleon  and  Victor  Emmanuel),  told  upon  her  lnn<  s. 
'J  he  autumn  of  18G0  brought  with  it  another  sorrow  in  the 
death  of  a  beloved  sister,  and  this  loss  seemed  more  than 
Mrs.  Browning  could  bear;  but  by  breathing  the  soft  air  of 
Rome  again  she  seemed  to  revive,  and  indeed  wrote  that  she 
was  '  belter  in  body  and  soul.' 

"Those  who  have  known  Mrs.  Browning  in  later  years 
thought  she  nevjr  looked  better  than  u])on  lier  return  to 
Florence  in  the  first  days  of  last  June,  although  the  over- 
land journey  had  been  unusually  fatiguing  to  her.  But  the 
meeting  was  a  sad  one ;  for  Cavour  had  died,  and  the  n* 


ELIZABETH     BARRETT     BROWNING.         17 

tional  loss  was  as  severe  to  her  as  a  personal  bereavement. 
Her  deep  nature  regarded  Italy's  benefactor  in  the  linht  of  a 
friend ;  for  had  he  not  labored  nnceasinoly  for  that  which 
was  the  burden  of  her  song?  and  could  she  allow  so  great  a 
man  to  pass  away  without  many  a  heart-ache  ?  It  is  as  sub- 
lime as  it  is  rare  to  see  such  intense  appreciation  of  great 
deeds  as  Mrs.  Browning  could  give.  Her  fears,  too,  for  Italy, 
when  the  patriot  pilot  was  hurried  from  the  helm,  gave  rise 
to  much  anxiety,  until  quieted  by  the  assuring  words  of  the 
new  minister,  Ricasoli. 

"Nor  was  Mrs.  Browning  so  much  engrossed  in  the  Italian 
regeneration  that  she  had  no  thought  for  other  nations  and 
for  other  wrongs.     Her  interest  in  America  was  very  great — 

'  For  poets,  (bear  the  word !) 
Half-poets  even,  are  still  whole  demncnits: 
Oh,  not  that  we're  disiloyal  to  the  high, 
Bnt  loyal  to  the  low,  and  cognizant 
Of  the  less  scrutable  majesties.' 

In  Mrs.  Browning's  poem  of  '  A  Curse  for  a  Nation,'  where 
she  foretold  the  agony  in  store  for  America,  and  which  has 
fallen  upon  us  with  the  swiftness  of  lightning,  she  was  loath 
to  raise  her  poet's  voice  against  us,  pleading — 

'For  I  am  bound  by  gratitude. 

By  love  and  blood. 
To  brothers  of  mine  across  the  sea, 
Who  stretch  out  kindly  hands  to  me.' 

•And  one  of  her  last  letters,  addressed  to  an  American  friend 
who  had  reminded  her  of  her  prophecy  and  of  its  present  ful- 
filment, she  replied — '  Never  say  that  I  have  "  cursed"  your 
country.  I  only  declared  the  consequence  of  the  evil  in  her, 
and  which  has  since  developed  itself  in  thunder  and  flame. 
I  feel  with  more  pain  than  many  Americans  do  the  sorrow 
of  this  transition-time  ;  but  I  do  know  that  it  is  transition, 
that  it  in  crisis,  and  that  you  will  come  out  of  the  lire  puri- 
fied, staitiless.  having  had  the  angel  of  a  great  cause  walking 
with  you  in  the  furnace.'  Are  not  such  burning,  hopeful 
•words  from  such  a  source  worthy  of  the  grateful  memory  of 
the  Americans  ?  Our  cause  has  lost  an  ardent  supporter  in 
Mrs.  Browning;  and  did  we  dare  rebel  against  God's  will,  we 
should  grieve  deeply  that  she  was  not  permitted  to  glorify 
the  Right  in  America  as  she  has  glorified  it  in  Italy.  Among 
the  last  things  that  she  read  were  Motley's  letters  on  the 
'American  Crisis,'  and  the  writer  will  ever  hold  in  dear  mem- 
ory the  all  but  final  conversation  had  with  Mrs.  Browning,in 
which  these  letters  were  discussed  and  warmly  approved.  Ji> 
referring  to  the  attitude  taken  by  foreign  nations  with  regard 
to  America,  she  said — '  Why  do  you  heed  what  others  say  ? 
You  are  strong,  and  can  do  without  sympathy  ;  and  when 
you  have  triumphed,  your  glory  will  be  the  greater.'  Mrs. 
I3rowning's  most  enthusiastic  admirers  are  Americans ;  and 
I  am  sure,  that,  now  she  is  no  longer  of  earth,  they  will  love 
her  the  more  for  her  sympathy  in  the  cause  which  is  uearesi 
to  all  hearts. 
2* 


18  MEMOIR     OF 

"  Mrs.  Browning's  conversation  was  most  intereoling.  1} 
was  not  characterized  by  sallies  of  wit  or  brilliant  repartee, 
nor  was  it  of  that  nature  which  is  most  welcome  in  society. 
It  was  frequently  intermingled  with  trenchant,  quaint  re- 
marks, leavened  with  a  quiet,  graceful  humor  of  her  own : 
but  it  was  eminently  calculated  for  a  tete-d-tete.  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing never  made  an  insignificant  remark.  All  that  she  said 
was  always  worth  hearing ; — a  greater  compliment  could  not 
be  paid  her.  She  was  a  most  conscientious  listener,  giving 
you  her  mind  and  heart,  as  well  as  her  magnetic  eyes.  Tliough 
the  latter  spoke  an  eager  language  of  their  own,  she  conversed 
slowly,  with  a  conciseness  and  point  that,  added  to  a  match- 
less earnestness,  which  was  tlie  predominant  trait  of  her 
conversation  as  it  was  of  her  character,  made  her  a  most  de- 
lightful companion.  Persons  were  never  her  theme,  unless 
public  characters  were  under  discussion,  or  friends  were  to 
be  praised — whicU  kind  office  she  frequently  took  upon  her- 
self. One  never  dreamed  of  frivolities  in  Mrs.  Browning's 
presence,  and  gossip  felt  itself  out  of  place.  JTowrself  (not 
herself)  was  always  a  pleasant  sitbject  to  her,  calling  out  all 
her  best  sympatliies  in  joy,  and  yet  more  in  sorrow.  Books 
and  humanity,  great  deeds,  and,  above  all,  politics,  which 
include  all  the  grand  questions  of  the  day,  were  foremost  in 
her  thoughts,  and  therefore  oftenest  on  her  lips.  I  speak 
not  of  religion,  for  with  her  everything  was  religion.  Her 
Christianity  was  not  confined  to  church  and  rubric:  it  meant 
civilization. 

"Association  with  the  Brownings,  even  though  of  the 
slightest  nature,  made  one  better  in  mind  and  soul.  It  was 
impossible  to  escape  the  influence  of  the  magnetic  fluid  of 
love  and  poetry  that  was  constantly  passing  between  hus- 
band and  wife.  'J'he  unaffected  devotion  of  one  to  the  other 
wove  an  additional  charm  around  the  two,  and  the  very  con- 
trasts in  their  natures  made  the  union  a  more  beautiful  one. 
All  remember  Mrs.  Browning's  pretty  poem  on  her  'Pet 
Name.'  *  *  *  *  it  was  this  pet  name  of  two  small 
letters  lovingly  combined  that  dotted  Mr.  Browning's  spoken 
thoughts,  as  moonbeams  fleck  the  ocean,  and  seemed  the 
pearl-bead  that  linked  conversation  together  in  one  harmo- 
nious whole.  But  what  was  written  has  now  come  to  pass 
The  pet  name  is  engraved  only  in  the  hearts  of  a  few. 

'Though  I  write  books,  it  will  be  read 

Upon  tlie  leaves  of  none : 
And  afterward,  when  I  am  dead, 
Will  ne'er  be  graved,  for  sight  or  tread, 

Across  my  funeral  stone.' 

"Mrs.  Browning's  letters  are  masterpieces  of  their  kind. 
Easy  and  conversational,  they  touch  upon  no  subject  with- 
out leaving  an  indelible  impression  of  the  writer's  origi- 
nality ;  and  the  myriad  matters  of  universal  interest  with 
which  many  of  them  are  teeming  will  render  them  a  pre- 
clous  legacy  to  the  world,  when  the  time  shall  have  arrived 
for  tlieir  publication.     Of  late,  Italy  has  claimed  the  lion's 


ELIZABETH     BARRETT     BROWNING,         IS 

Bliiire  in  these  unrliymcd  sketclies  of  Mrs.  Brownin;^  in  Iha 
negligee  of  home.  Prose  lias  recorded  all  that  poetry  threw 
aside;  and  tluis  nnich  political  thought,  jnany  an  anecdote, 
many  a  reflection,  and  much  womanly  entliusiasm  liave  been 
stored  up  for  the  benetit  of  more  than  the  persons  to  whom 
these  letters  were  addressed.  And  wlnle  we  wait  ))atiently 
for  this  great  pleasure,  which  must  sooner  or  later  be  en- 
joyed and  ajipreciated,  we  may  gather  a  foretaste  of  Mrs. 
Browning's  power  in  prose-writing  from  her  early  essays,  and 
from  the  admirable  preface  to  the  '  Poems  before  Congress.' 
The  latter  is  simple  in  its  style,  and  grand  in  teachings  that 
find  few  followers  among'  nations  in  these  enligh/eiied  days. 

"Some  are  prone  to  moralize  over  precious  stones,  and  see 
in  them  the  petrified  souls  of  men  and  women,  '{"here  is  no 
stone  so  sympathetic  as  the  opal,  which  one  might  fancy  to 
be  a  concentration  of  Mrs.  Browning's  genius.  Jt  is  essen- 
tially the  looman-stone,  giving  out  a  sympathetic  warinth, 
varying  its  colors  from  day  to  day,  as  though  an  index  of 
the  heart's  barometer.  'I'here  is  the  topmost  purity  of  white, 
blended  with  the  delicate,  perpetual  vertlure  of  hope,  and 
down  in  the  opal's  centre  lies  the  deep  crimson  of  love.  The 
red,  the  white,  and  the  green,  forming  as  they  do  the  colorr* 
of  Italy,  render  the  opal  doubly  like  Mrs.  J5rowning.  It  is 
right  that  the  woman-stone  should  inclose  the  symbols  of  the 
'  Woman  Country.' 

"Feeling  all  these  things  of  Mrs.  Browning,  it  becomes  the 
more  painful  to  ])lace  on  record  an  account  of  those  last  days 
that  have  -brought  with  them  so  universal  a  sorrow.  Mrs. 
Browning's  illness  was  only  of  a  week's  duration.  Having 
caught  a  severe  cold  of  a  more  threatening  nature  than 
usual,  medical  skill  was  summoned;  but,  although  anxiety 
in  her  indialf  was  necessarily  felt,  there  was  no  whisper  of 
great  danger  tmtil  the  third  or  fourth  night,  when  those  who 
most  loved  her  said  they  had  never  seen  lier  so  ill ;  on  the 
following  inorning.  however,  she  was  better,  and  from  that 
moment  was  thought  to  be  improving  in  health.  She  her- 
self believed  this;  and  all  had  such  confidence  in  her  won- 
drous  vitality,  and  the  hope  was  so  strong  that  God  would 
spare  her  for  still  greater  good,  that  a  dark  veil  was  drawn 
over  what  might  be.  It  is  often  the  case,  where  we  are  ac- 
customed to  associate  constant  suffering  with  dear  friends, 
that  we  cahniy  look  danger  in  the  face  without  misgivings. 
So  little  did  Airs.  Browning  realize  her  critical  condition, 
that,  until  the  last  day,  she  did  not  consider  herself  sufti- 
ciently  indisposed  to  remain  in  bed,  and  then  the  precaution 
was  accidental.  So  much  encouraged  did  she  feel  with  re- 
gard to  herself,  that,  on  this  final  evening,  an  intimate  female 
friend  was  admitted  to  her  bedside  and  found  her  in  good 
spirits,  ready  at  pleasantry  and  willing  to  converse  on  all  the 
old  loved  subjects.  Her  ruling  passion  had  prompted  her  to 
glance  at  the  '  Athenasum '  and  'Nazione;'  and  when  this 
friend  repeated  the  opinions  she  had  heard  expressed  by  ac 
acquaintance  of  the  new  Italian    Premier,   li/casoU,  to  the 


20  MEMOIROF 

etfect  that  his  policy  and  Cavonr's  were  identical,  Mra 
Browning  'smiled  lilce  Italy,'  and  thankfully  replied — 'I  are 
glad  of  it;  I  thought  so.'  Even  then  her  thoughts  were  not 
of  self.  'J'his  near  friend  went  away  with  no  suspicion  of 
what  was  soon  to  be  a  terrible  reality.  Mrs.  Browning's 
own  bright  boy  bade  liis  motlier  good-night,  cheered  by  her 
oft-repeated,  '  I  am  better,  dear,  much  better.'  Inquiring 
friends  were  made  happy  by  l]\ese  assurances. 

"  One  only  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night — he 
who  for  fifteen  years  had  ministered  to  her  with  all  the  ten- 
derness of  a  woman.  It  was  a  night  devoid  of  suffering  to 
her.  As  morning  approached,  and  for  two  hours  previous 
to  the  dread  moment,  she  seemed  to  be  in  a  partial  ecstasy  ; 
and  though  not  apparently  conscious  of  the  coming  on  of 
death,  slie  gave  her  husband  all  those  holy  words  of  love, 
all  the  consolation  of  an  oft-repeated  blessing,  whose  value 
death  has  made  priceless.  Such  moments  are  too  sacred  for 
the  common  pen,  which  pauses  as  the  woman-poet  raises 
herself  up  to  die  in  the  arms  of  her  poet-husband.  He 
knew  not  that  death  had  robbed  him  of  his  treasure,  until 
the  drooping  form  i:rew  chill  and  froze  his  heart's  blood. 

"At  half-past  four,  on  the  morning  of  the  29th  of  June, 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  died  of  congestion  of  the  lungs. 
Her  last  words  were,  'It  is  beautifuW  God  was  merciful  to 
the  end,  sparing  lier  and  hers  the  agony  of  a  frenzied  part- 
ing, giving  proof  to  those  who  were  left  of  the  glory  and 
happiness  in  store  for  her,  by  those  few  words,  'It  is  beauti- 
ful!' 'i'he  spirit  could  see  its  future  mission  even  before 
shaking  off  the  dust  of  the  earth. 

"  Gazing  on  her  peaceful  face  with  its  eyes  closed  on  us 
forever,  our  cry  was  her  '  Cry  of  the  Human.' 

We  tremble  by  the  baniiless  bed 

Of  one  liived  and  departed: 
Our  tears  drop  on  tlie  lips  tbat  said 

Last  iiiglit,  "be  stronger-liearted  " 
O  God!  to  clasp  those  fingers  close, 

And  yet  to  feel  so  lonely! 
To  see  a  light  upon  such  brows, 

Which  is  tlie  davliglit  only! 

Be  pitiful,  b  God  1 

"  On  the  evening  of  July"lst,  the  lovely  English  burying- 
ground  without  the  walls  of  Florence  opened  its  gates  to  re- 
ceive one  more  occupant.  A  band  of  English,  Americans, 
and  Italians,  sorrowing  men  and  women,  whose  faces  as  well 
as  dress  were  in  mourning,  gathered  around  tlie  bier  con- 
taining all  that  was  mortal  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 
Who  of  those  present  will  forget  the  solemn  scene,  made 
doubly  impressive  by  the  grief  of  the  husband  and  son?  'Tiie 
sting  of  death  is  sin,'  said  the  clergyman.  Sinless  in  life,  her 
death,  then,  was  without  sting;  and  turning  our  thoughls 
inwardly,  we  murmured  her  prayers  for  tlie  dead,  and  wished 
that  they  might  have  been  her  burial  service.  We  heard  her 
poet-voice  saying — 


SLIZABETU      BARRETT     BROWNINQ.        21 

'  And  fiieiids,  dear  fi ieiids,  when  it  shall  be 

Tluit  tills  low  breath  is  gone  from  me, 
And  ruuiul  my  bier  ye  coine  to  weep, 

Let  one  most  loving  of  you  all 

Siiy,  "  Not  11  tear  must  o'er  liei'  fall- 
lie  giveth  His  beloved  sleep."  ' 

"  But  the  tears  would  fall,  as  they  bore  her  up  the  hill,  and 
lowered  '  His  beloved  '  into  her  restin,<!:-i)lace,  the  grave.  'I'he 
sun  itself  was  sinking  to  rest  behind  the  western  hills,  and 
sent  a  farewell  smile  of  love  into  the  east,  that  it  nii<rht 
glance  on  the  .lowering  bier.  The  distant  mountains  hid 
their  faces  in  a  misty  veil,  and  the  tall  cypress-lrees  of  the 
cemetery  swayed  and  sighed  as  Nature's  special  mourners 
for  her  favored  child ;  and  there  they  are  to  stand  keepmg 
watch  over  her. 

'Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  birds  sang  west. 

Toll  dowly  ! 
And  I  said  in  under-breath,  All  our  life  is  mixed  with  death. 
And  who  knowcth  which  is  best? 

'Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  birds  sang  west. 

Toll  slowly  > 
And  I  "paused"  to  think  God's  greatness  flowed  around  our  incompleteness — 
Round  our  restlessness,  His  rest.' 

"  Dust  to  dust — and  the  earth  fell  with  a  dull  echo  on  the 
coffin.  We  gathered  round  to  take  one  look,  and  saw  a  double 
grave,  too  large  for  her  ; — may  it  wait  long  and  patiently  for 
him  I 

"  And  now  a  mound  of  earth  marks  the  spot  where  sleeps 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning.  A  white  wreath  to  mark  her 
woman's  purity  lies  on  her  head;  the  laurel  wreath  of  the 
poet  lies  at  her  feet;  and  friendly  liands  scatter  white  flowers 
o\er  the  grave  of  a  week  as  symbols  of  the  dead. 

"  We  feel  as  she  wrote — 

'  God  keeps  a  niche 
In  heaven  to  hold  our  idols;  and  albeit 
He  brake  them  to  our  faces,  and  denied 
That  our  close  kisses  should  impair  their  white, 
1  know  we  shall  behold  them  raised,  complete. 
The  dust  swept  from  their  beauty,  glorified, 
New  Memuons  singing  iu  the  great  Godlight.' 

*' It  is  strange  that  Cavour  and  Mrs.  Browning  should 
have  died  in  the  same  month,  within  twenty-three  days  of 
each  other — the  one  the  head,  the  other  the  heart  of  Italy. 
As  head  and  heart  made  up  the  perfect  Ufe,  so  death  was 
not  complete  until  Heaven  welcomed  both.  It  seemed  also 
strange,  that  on  the  night  after  Mrs.  Browning's  decease  an 
unexpected  comet  should  glare  ominously  out  of  the  sky. 
For  the  moment  we  were  superstitious,  and  believed  in  it  as 
a  minister  of  woe. 

"Great  as  is  this  loss.  Mrs.  Browning's  death  is  not  with- 
out a  sad  consolation.  From  the  shattered  condition  of  lier 
lungs,  the  physician  feels  assured  that  existence  cuuld  jiot  at 
the  farthest  have  been  prolonged  for  more  than  six  months. 
Instead  of  a  sudden  call  to  God,  life  would  have  slowly  ebbed 


22  M  E  M  0  I  R     0  r 

away ;  an  1,  too  feeble  for  tlie  slightest  exertion,  she  inusl 
have  been  denied  tlie  solace  of  books,  of  friends,  of  writing, 
perhaps  oi  ihou^lit  even.  God  saved  her  from  a  living  grave, 
and  her  husband  from  protracted  misery.  Seeking  for  the 
shadow  of  Mi's.  Browning's  self  in  her  poetry  (for  she  was  a 
rare  instance  of  an  author's  superiority  to  his  work),  many 
an  expression  is  found  tliat  welcomes  the  thought  of  a 
change  wliicli  would  IVee  her  from  the  suffering  inseparable 
from  her  mortality.  There  is  a  yearning  for  a  more  fully 
developed  life,  to  be  found  most  frequently  in  her  sonnets. 
She  writes  at  times  as  though  through  weakness  of  the  body, 
acr  wings  were  tied  : — 

When  I  attain  to  utter  forth  in  verse 
Sunio  inward  thought,  n>y  soul  throbd  audibly 
Along  my  pulses,  yearnini;  to  be  free, 
And  sometliing  farther,  fulier,  higher  rehearse, 
To  the  individual  true,  and  the  universe, 
111  consuiiiination  of  right  harinoiiy  1 
But,  like  a  wind-exposed,  distorted  tree. 
We  are  blown  against  forever  by  the  curse 
Wliicli  bieatlies  thiougU  Nature.     Oh,  the  world  is  weak; 
The  effluence  of  ouch  is  false  to  all ; 
And  what  we  best  conceive,  we  fail  to  speak  I 
Wait,  soul,  until  thiue  asneu  garments  fall, 
And  tlifii  lesiiine  thy  brukuu  strains,  and  seek 
Fit  peroration  without  let  or  thrall!' 

"  The  '  ashen  garments '  have  fallen — 

'  And  though  we  must  have  and  have  had 
Uight  reason  to  be  earthly  sad, 
Thou  I'oet-God  art  great  and  glad  I' 

"  It  was  meet  that  Mrs.  Browning  should  come  home  to 
die  in  her  Florence,  in  her  Casa  Guidi,  where  slie  liad  i)assed 
her  happy  married  life,  where  her  boy  was  born,  and  where 
she  had  watched  and  rejoiced  over  the  second  birth  of  a 
great  nation.  Her  heart-strings  did  not  entwine  themselves 
around  Rome  as  amund  Florence,  and  it  seems  as  thougli 
life  had  been  so  eked  out  that  she  might  find  a  lasting  sleep 
in  Florence  Rome  holds  fast  its  Shelley  and  Keats,  to 
whose  lowly  graves  there  is  many  a  reverential  pilgrimage ; 
and  now  Florence,  no  less  honored,  has  its  shrine  sacred  to 
the  memory  of  Theodore  Parker  and  Elizabeth  Barrett 
Browning. 

"  The  present  Florence  is  not  the  Florence  of  other  days. 
It  can  never  be  the  same  to  those  who  loved  it  as  much  for 
Mrs.  Browning's  sake  as  for  its  own.  Her  reflection  lem&ius 
and  must  ever  remain ;  for, 

'  while  she  rests,  her  songs  in  troops 
Walk  up  and  down  our  earthly  slopes, 
Compauioned  by  diviner  hopes.' 

"  The  Italians  have  shown  much  feeling  at  the  loss  which 
they  too,  have  sustained — more  than  might  have  been  ex- 
pected, when  it  is  considered  that  few  of  them  are  conversant 
with  Uie  English  language,  and  that  to  those  few  English 
poetry  (Byron  excepted)  is  unknown. 


ELIZABETH      BARRETT      BROWNING.  23 

"  A  battalion  of  the  National  (Juard  was  to  have  followed 
\frs.  Browning's  remains  to  the  grave,  had  not  a  misunder 
standing  as  to  time  frustrated  this  testimonial  of  respect. 
The  Florentines  have  expressed  great  interest  in  the  young 
boy,  Tuscan-born,  and  have  even  requested  that  he  should 
be  educated  as  an  Italian,  when  any  career  in  the  new  Italy 
Bhoiild  be  open  to  him.  Though  this  offer  will  not  be  ac- 
cepted, it  was  most  kindly  meant,  and  sliows  with  what 
reverence  Florence  regards  the  name  of  Browning.  Mrs. 
Browning's  friends  are  anxious  that  a  tablet  to  her  meir.ory 
should  be  placed  in  the  Florentine  Pantheon,  the  Church  of 
Santa  Croce.  It  is  true  she  was  not  a  Eomanist,  neither 
was  she  an  Italian — yet  she  was  Catholic,  and  more  than  an 
Italian.  Her  genius  and  what  slie  had  done  for  Italy  entitle 
her  to  companionship  with  Galileo,  Michel  Angelo,  Dame. 
and  Alfieri.  The  friars  who  have  given  their  permission  for 
the  erection  of  a  monument  to  Cavour  in  Sinta  Croce, 
ought  willingly  to  make  room  for  a  tablet  on  which  should 
be  inscribed, 

"She  sang  thb  song  of  Italy. 
She  wrote  *  Aukora  Leigh.'  " 

An  eminent  author  has  called  Mrs.  Browning  the  female 
Shakspeare  of  England.  Female  poets  hold  a  more  distin- 
guished place  in  English  literature  at  this  day,  and  tlieir 
works  fill  a  larger  space  in  our  libraries,  than  in  any  previous 
period  in  literary  history.  And  among  these  Mrs.  Browning 
has  no  superior,  and  few  if  any  equals.  Her  name  and  lame, 
her  character  and  works,  will  live  and  be  held  in  cherished 
remembrance  by  all  admirers  of  fine  writing  for  ages  to 
come. 

In  the  fine  portrait  which  adorns  the  present  edition,  l>er 
friends  may  see  and  retain  a  very  accurate  expression  of  her 
face  and  features  almost  up  to  the  close  of  her  life.  "'I'hig 
portrait  is  all  I  could  desire,"  wrote  her  bereaved  husband, 
soon  after  her  decease,  when  enclosing  her  photograph,  from 
which  the  present  engraving  has  been  copied. 


A  DRAMA  OF  EXILE. 


BoBNE. — The  outer  side  of  the  gate  of  Eden  shut  fast  ivith  cloud,  from 
the  depth  of  which  revolves  a  sivord  of  fire  aelf-moved.  Adam  an\ 
Eve  are  seen  in  the  distance  flying  along  the  glare. 


Lucifer,  alone. 

Rejoice  in  the  clefts  of  Gehenna, 

M}^  exiled,  ni}^  host ! 
Earth  has  exiles  as  hopeless  as  when  a 

Heaven's  empire  was  lost. 
Through  the  seams  of  her  shaken  foundations, 

Smoke  up  in  great  joy! 
With  the  smoke  of  your  fierce  exultations 

Deform  and  destroy  ! 
Smoke  up  with  3'our  lurid  revenges, 

And  darken  the  face 
Of  the  white  heavens,  and  taunt  them  with  changes 

From  glory  and  grace. 
"We,  in  falling,  while  destiu}^  strangles, 

Pall  down  with  us  all. 
Let  them  look  to  the  rest  of  their  angels! 

Who's  safe  from  a  fall  ? 
He  saves  not.     Where's  Adam?     Can  pardon 

Requicken  that  sod  ? 
Unkinged  is  the  King  of  the  Garden, 

The  image  of  God. 
Other  exiles  are  cast  out  of  Eden — 

More  curse  has  been  hurled. 
Come  up,  0  my  locusts,  and  feed  in 

The  green  of  the  world. 
Come  up !  we  have  conquered  by  evil. 

Good  reigns  not  alone. 
T  prevail  novv,  and,  angel  or  devil, 

Inherit  a  throne. 

3  25 


26  A      DRAMA      OF      EXILE. 

[/?i  suflJcn  apparition  a  ica/ch  nf  iniuiiiicraf/le  angels,  rank  above  rank, 
slopes  up  from  around  the  yules  to  t/ie  zenith.  The  angel  GabribL 
(h  scends. 

Luc.  Hail  Gabriel,  the  keeper  of  the  gate! 
Now  tliat  the  fruit  is  plucked,  prince  Gabriel, 
I  hold  that  Eden  is  impregnable 
LTnder  thy  keeping. 

Gab.  Angel  of  the  sin, 

Such  as  thou  standest — pale  in  the  drear  light 
Which  rounds  the  rebel's  work  with  Maker's  wrath — 
Thou  shalt  be  an  Idea  to  all  souls, 
A  monumental  melancholy  gloom 
Seen  down  all  ages,  whence  to  mark  despair 
And  measure  out  the  distances  from  good. 
Go  from  us  straightway. 

Luc.  Wherefore  ? 

Gab.    .  Lucifer, 

Thy  last  step  in  this  place  trod  sorrow  up. 
Recoil  before  that  sorrow,  if  not  this  sword. 

Luc.   Angels  are  in  the  world — wherefore  not  I  ? 
Exiles  are  in  the  -svorld — wherefore  not  I  ? 
The  cursed  are  in  the  world — wherefore  not  I  ? 

Gab.  Depart. 

Luc.  And  where's  the  logic  of  "  depart  ?" 

Our  lady  Eve  had  half  been  satisfied 
To  obey  her  Maker,  if  I  had  not  learnt 
To  fix  my  postulate  better.     Dost  thou  dream 
Of  guarding  some  monopoly'  in  heaven 
Instead  of  earth  ?     Why  I  can  dream  with  thee 
To  the  length  of  thy  wings. 

Gab.  I  do  not  dj-eam. 

This  is  not  Heaven,  even  in  a  dream,  nor  earth, 
As  earth  was  once,  first  breathed  aruong  the  stars, 
Articulate  glory  from  the  mouth  divine. 
To  which  the  myriad  spheres  thrilled  auihbly 
Touched  like  a  lute-string,  and  the  sons  of  God 
Said  AMEN,  singing  it.     1  know  that  this 
Is  earth  not  new  created  but  new  cursed — 
This,  Eden's  gate  not  opened  but  built  up 
With  a  final  cloud  of  sunset.     Do  I  dream  ? 
Alas,  not  so  1  this  is  the  f]den  lost 
B}-  Lucifer  the  serpent!  this  the  sword 
(This  sword  alive  with  justice  and  with  fin  *\ 
That  smote  upon  the  forehead,  Ijucifer 
The  angel.     W^herefore,  angel,  go — depart — 
Euouii'h  is  sinned  and  suffered. 


A     DRAMA      OF     EXILE.  27 

Luc.  By  no  means. 

Here's  a  brave  earth  to  sin  and  suffer  on. 
It  holds  fast  still — it  cracks  not  under  curse  ; 
It  holds  like  mine  immortal.     Presently 
We'll  sow  it  thick  enough  with  graves  as  green 
Or  greener  ccrtes,  than  its  knowledge  tree — 
We'll  have  the  cypress  for  the  tree  of  life, 
More  eminent  for  shadow: — for  the  rest 
We'll  build  it  daik  with  towns  and  pyramids, 
And  temples,  if  it  please  you: — we'll  have  feasts 
And  funerals  also,  merry  makes  and  wars. 
Till  blood  and  wine  shall  mix  and  run  along- 
Right  o'er  the  edges.     And  good  Gabriel, 
(Ye  like  that  word  in  Heaven!)  /  too  have  strength^ 
Strength  to  behold  Him  and  not  worship  Him, 
Strength  to  fall  from  Him  and  not  cry  on  Him, 
Strength  to  be  in  the  universe  and  yet 
Neither  God  nor  his  servant.     The  red  sign 
Burnt  on  my  forehead,  which  3^ou  taunt  me  with, 
Is  God's  sign  that  it  bows  not  unto  God, 
The  potter's  mark  upon  his  work,  to  show 
It  rings  well  to  the  striker.     I  and  the  earth 
Can  bear  more  curse. 

Gab.  0  miserable  earth, 

0  ruined  angel ! 

Luc.  Well,  and  if  it  be  ! 

1  CHOSE  this  ruin  ;  I  elected  it 

Of  my  will,  not  of  service.     What  I  do, 

I  do  volitient,  not  obedient. 

And  overtop  thy  crown  with  ra^^  despair. 

My  sorrow  crowns  me.     Get  thee  back  to  Heaven, 

And  leave  me  to  the  earth  which  is  mine  own 

In  virtue  of  her  ruin,  as  I  hers 

In  virtue  of  my  revolt !  turn  thou  from  both 

That  bright,  imi)assive  passive  angelhood, 

And  spare  to  read  us  backward  any  more 

Of  the  spent  hallelujahs. 

Gah.  Spirit  of  scorn, 

I  might  say,  of  unreason  !  I  might  say, 
'f  hat  who  despairs,  acts ;  that  who  acts,  connives 
With  God's  relations  set  in  time  and  space; 
That  who  elects,  assumes  a  something  good      ' 
Which  God  made  possible;  that  who  lives,  obeys 
The  law  of  a  Life-maker  .  . 

Luc.  Let  it  pass. 

No  more,  thou  Gabriel!     What  if  I  stand  up? 


28  A     DRAMA      OF     EXILE. 

And  strike  my  brow  against  the  crystalline 
Roofinar  the  creatures — shall  I  say,  for  that, 
My  stature  is  too  high  for  me  to  stand — 
Henceforward  I  must  sit  ?     Sit  thou. 

Gab.  I  kneel. 

Talc.  A  heavenly  answer.     Get  thee  to  thy  Heaven 
A  nd  leave  m}'  earth  to  me. 

Gab.  Through  heaven  and  eartl 

God's  will  moves  freely,  and  I  follow, 
As  color  follows  light.     He  overflows 
'J'he  fii-mamental  walls  with  deity. 
Therefore  with  love  ;  His  lightnings  go  abroad. 
His  pity  may  do  so,  His  angels  must, 
Whene'er  he  gives  them  charges. 

Luc.  Yerily, 

I  and  my  demons,  who  are  spirits  of  scorn. 
Might  hold  this  charge  of  standing  with  a  sword 
'Twixt  man  and  his  inheritance,  as  well  • 
As  the  benignest  angel  of  3'ou  all. 

Gab.  Thou  speakest  in  the  shadow  of  thy  change. 
If  thou  hadst  gazed  upon  the  face  of  God 
This  morning  for  a  moment,  thou  hadst  known 
That  only  pity  fitly  can  chastise. 
Hate  but  avenges, 

Luc.  As  it  is,  I  know 

Something  of  pity.     When  1  reeled  in  Heaven, 
And  my  sword  grew  too  heavy  for  my  grasp, 
Stabbing  through  matter,  Avhich  it  could  not  ]>ierce 
So  much  as  the  first  shell  of — toward  the  throne; 
When  I  fell  back,  down — staring  up  as  I  fell — 
The  lightnings  holding  open  my  scathed  lids, 
And  that  thought  of  the  infinite  of  God, 
Hurled  after  to  precipitate  descent; 
When  countless  angel  faces  still  and  stern 
Pressed  out  upon  me  from  the  level  heavens 
Adown  the  abysmal  spaces,  and  I  fell 
Tram})led  down  by  3'our  stillness,  and  struck  blind 
By  the  sight  within  your  eyes — 'twas  then  I  knew 
How  ye  could  pity,  my  kind  angelhood  ! 

Gab.  Alas,  discrowned  one,  by  the  truth  in  me 
Which  God  keeps  in  me,  I  wouhl  give  away 
All — save  that  truth  and  His  love  keeping  it — 
To  lead  thee  home  again  into  the  light 
And  hear  thj-  voice  chant  with  the  morning  stars, 
When  their  raj's  tremble  round  them  with  miich  song 
Sung  m  more  gladness  ! 


A     DKAMA      OV      EXIjE.  29 

Luc.  Sing,  my  Morning  Star! 

Last  beautiful,  last  heavenly,  that  I  loved  ! 
If  I  could  drench  thy  golden  locks  with  tears, 
Wliat  were  it  to  this  angel  ? 

Gab.  .What  love  is. 

And  now  I  have  named  God. 

Luc.  Yet  Gabriel, 

By  tlie  lie  in  me  which  I  keep  myself, 
Thou'rt  a  lalse  swearer.     Were  it  otherwise, 
What  dost  thou  here,  vouchsafing  tender  thoughts 
To  that  earth-angel  or  earth-demon — whicii. 
Thou  and  I  have  not  solved  the  problem  yet 
Enough  to  argue — that  fallen  Adam  there — 
That  red-clay  and  a  breath!  who  must,  forsooth, 
Live  in  a  new  apocalypse  of  sense. 
With  beauty  and  music  waving  in  his  trees 
And  running  in  his  rivers,  to  make  glad 
His  soul  made  perfect ! — is  it  not  for  hope, 
A  hope  within  tliee  deeper  than  thy  truth, 
Of  finally  conducting  lum  and  his 
To  fill  the  vacant  thrones  of  me  and  mine, 
Which  aflTront  heaven  with  their  vacuity  ? 

Gab.  Angel,  there  are  no  vacant  thrones  in  Ileaveu 
To  suit  thy  empty  words.     Glory  and  life 
Fulfil  their  own  depletions  ;  and  if  God 
Sighed  you  far  from  him.  His  next  breath  drew  in 
A  compensative  splendor  up  the  vast, 
Flushing  the  starry  arteries. 

Luc.  With  a  change  ! 

So,  let  the  vacant  thrones  and  gardens  too 
Fill  as  may  please  you  ! — and  be  pitiful. 
As  ye  translate  that  word,  to  the  dethroned 
And  exiled,  man  or  angel.     The  fact  stands. 
That  I,  the  rebel,  the  cast  out  and  down, 
Am  here  and  will  not  go  ;  while  there,  along 
The  light  to  which  ye  fiash  the  desert  out, 
Flies  your  adopted  Adam,  your  red-clay 
In  two  kinds,  both  being  flawed.     Why,  what  is  this? 
Whose  work  is  this?     Whose  hand  was  in  the  work  ? 
Against  whose  hand?     In  this  last  strife,  methinks, 
I  am  not  a  fallen  angel ! 

Gab.  Dost  thou  know 

Aught  of  those  exiles  ? 

Luc.  Ay,  I  know  they  ha^■e  (led 

Silent  all  daj^  along  the  wilderness  : 
1  know  they  w'ear,  for  burden  on  their  l)acks, 


30  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

The  thought  of  a  shut  gate  of  Paradise, 
And  faces  of  the  marshalled  cherubim 
Shining  against,  not  for  them  ;  and  I  know 
They  dare  not  look  in  one  another's  face — 
As  if  each  were  a  cherub  ! 

Gob.  Dost  thou  know- 

Aught  of  tlieir  future  ? 

Luc.  Only  as  much  as  this  : 

That  evil  will  increase  and  multiply 
Without  a  benediction. 

Gab.  Nothing  more  ? 

Luc.  Why  so  the  angels  taunt !     ^Vhat  should   be 
more  ? 

Gab.  God  is  more. 

Luc.  Proving  what? 

Gab.  That  he  is  God. 

And  capable  of  saving.     Lucifer, 
I  charge  thee  by  the  solitude  He  kept 
Ere  he  created — leave  the  earth  to  God  ! 

Luc.  My  foot  is  on  the  earth,  firm  as  my  sin. 

Gab.  I  charge  thee  by  the  memory  of  Heaven 
Ere  any  sin  was  done — leave  earth  to  God! 

Luc.  My  sin  is  on  the  earth,  to  reign  thereon. 

Gab.  I  charge  thee  by  the  choral  song  we  sang, 
When  up  against  the  white  shore  of  our  feet. 
The  depths  of  the  creation  swelled  and  brake — 
And  the  new  worlds,  the  beaded  foam  and  flower 
Of  all  that  coil,  roared  outward  into  space 
On  thunder-edges — leave  the  earth  to  God  ! 

Luc.  My  woe  is  on  the  earth,  to  curse  thereby. 

Gab.  1  charge  thee  by  that  mournful  Morning  Star 
Which  trembles  .... 

Luc.  Enough  spoken.     As  the  pine 

In  norland  forest,  drops  its  weight  of  snows 
T3v  a  night's  growth,  so,  growing  toward  my  ends, 
T  drop  thy  counsels.     Farewell,  Gabriel ! 
Watch  out  thy  service  ;  I  achieve  my  will. 
And  peradventure  in  the  after  years, 
When  tlioughtful  men  shall  bend  their  spacious  brows 
Upon  the  storm  and  strife  seen  everywhere 
T'o  ruffle  their  smooth  manhood  and  break  \ip 
With  lurid  lights  of  intermittent  hoi)e 
Their  human  fear  and  wrong — they  ma^^  digcern 
The  heart  of  a  lost  angel  in  tlie  earth. 


A     DRAMA      OF     EXILE.  31 


CHORUS    OF    EDEN    SPIRITS 

(Chanting  from  paradise,  while  Adam  and  Eve  ///  across  the  Sword- 
(jlare.)  ■ 

llavken,  oh  havkenl  let  your  souls  behind  you 

Turn  gentl}^  moved! 
Our  voices  feel  along  the  Dread  to  find  you, 

0  lost,  beloved ! 
Through    the    thick-shielded    and    strong-marshalled 
angels, 
•  They  press  and  pierce: 
Oui-  requiems  follow  fast  on  our  evangels — 

Voice  throbs  in  verse. 
We  are  but  orphaned  s[)irits  left  in  Eden 

A  time  ago. 
God  gave  us  golden  cups,  and  we  were  bidden 

To  feed  3'Ou  so. 
But  now  our  right  hand  hath  no  cup  remaining. 

No  work  to  do. 
The  mystic  hydromel  is  spilt,  and  staining 

The  whole  earth  through. 
]\Iost  ineradicable  stains,  for  showing 

(Not  interfused  !) 
That  brighter  colors  were  the  world's  foregoing, 

Than  shall  be  used. 
TIarken,  oh  harken  !  ye  shall  harken  surely 

For  years  and  years. 
The  noise  beside  you,  dripping  coldly,  purely. 

Of  spirits'  tears. 
The  j^earning  to  a  beautiful  denied  you, 

Shall  strain  your  powers. 
Ideal  sweetnesses  shall  over-glide  3'^ou, 

Resumed  from  ours. 
In  all  your  music,  our  pathetic  minor 

Your  ears  shall  cross  ; 
And  all  good  gifts  shall  mind  you  of  diviner, 

With  sense  of  loss. 
We  shall  be  near  you  in  your  poet-languors 

And  Avilci  extremes. 
What  time  ye  vex  the  desert  with  vain  angers, 

Or  mock  with  dreams. 
And  when  upon  3'ou,  weary  after  roaming, 

Death's  seal  is  put. 
By  the  foregone  ye  shall  discern  the  coming, 

Through  evelids  shut. 


o'i  A      DRAM  A      OF     EXILE 

Spirits  of  the  trees. 

Hark !  the  Eden  trees  are  stirring, 
Soft  and  solemn  in  3'our  hearing! 
Oak  and  linden,  palm  and  fir, 
Tamarisk  and  Juniper, 
Each  still  throbbing  in  vibration 
Since  that  crowning  of  creation 
AVhen  the  God-breath  spake  abroad, 
Let  us  make  man  like  to  God  ! 
And  the  pine  stood  quivering 
As  the  awful  word  went  by, 
Like  a  vibrant  music-string 
Stretched  from  mountain-peak  to  sky. 
And  the  platan  did  expand 
Slow  and  gradual,  branch  and  head  ; 
And  the  cedar's  strong  black  shade 
Fluttered  brokenl3'  and  gi-and. 
Grove  and  wood  were  swept  aslant 
In  emotion  jubilant. 

Voice  of  the  same,  but  sifter. 

Which  divine  impulsion  cleaves 
In  dim  movements  to  the  leaves 
Dropt  and  lifted,  dropt  and  lifted 
In  the  sunlight  greenly  sifted^ — 
In  the  sunlight  and  the  moonlight 
Greenl}'  sifted  through  the  trees. 
vlvev  wave  the  Eden  trees 
In  the  nightlight  and  the  noonlight, 
With  a  ruffling  of  green  branches 
Shaded  off  to  resonances. 
Never  stirred  by  rain  or  breeze. 
Fare  ye  well,  farewell ! 
The  s^'lvan  sounds,  no  longer  audible. 
Expire  at  Eden's  door. 
Each  footstep  of  3'Our  treading 
Treads  out  some  murmur  which  3'e  heard  before 
Farewell !  the  trees  of  Eden 
Ye  shall  hear  nevermore. 

Biver-spirits. 

Hark!  the  flow  of  the  four  rivers — 

Hark  the  flow  1 
How  the  silence  round  j'ou  shivers, 
While  our  voices  through  it  go 

Cold  and  clear. 


A      DR  A  M  A      0  F      EXI  LE.  33 

ji  so/ler  voice. 

Think  a  little,  while  ye  hear, 

Of  the  b;inks 
Where  the  willows  and  the  deer  • 
Crowd  in  intermingled  ranks, 
As  if  all  would  drink  at  once 
Where  the  living  water  runs  ! — 
Of  the  fishes'  golden  edges 
Flashing  in  and  out  the  sedges  ; 
Of  the  swans  on  silver  thrones, 
Floating  down  the  winding  streams 
With  impassive  eyes  turned  shoreward 
And  a  chant  of  undertones — 
And  the  lotos  leaning  forward 
To  help  them  into  dreams. 

Fare  ye  well,  farewell! 
The  river-sounds,  no  longer  audible, 

Expire  at  Eden's  door. 

Each  footstep  of  your  treading 
Treads  out  some  murmur  which  3'e  heard  before 

Farewell!  the  streams  of  Eden, 

Ye  shall  hear  nevermore. 
Bird-spirit. 

I  am  the  nearest  nightingale 

That  singeth  in  Eden  after  3'ou  ; 

And  I  am  singing  loud  aud  true, 

And  sweet — I  do  not  fail. 

I  sit  upon  a  cypress  bough, 

Close  to  the  gate,  and  I  fling  my  song 

Over  the  gate  and  through  the  mail 

Of  the  warden  angels  marshalled  strong — ■ 

Over  the  gate  and  after  you  ! 
And  the  warden  angels  let  it  pass, 
Because  the  poor  brown  bird,  alas. 

Sings  in  the  garden,  sweet  and  true. 
And  1  build  my  song  of  high  pure  notes. 
Note  after  note,  height  over  height, 
Till  I  strike  the  arch  of  the  Infinite, 
And  I  bridge  abysmal  agonies 
With  strong,  clear  cahns  of  harmonies — ■ 
And  something  abides,  and  something  floats, 
In  the  song  which  I  sing  after  you. 

Fare  ye  Avell,  farewell ! 
The  creature-sounds,  no  longer  audible, 

Expire  at  Eden's  door. 

Each  footstep  of  your  treading 
C 


34  A      DRAMA      OF     EXILE. 

Treads  out  some  cadence  which  ye  heard  before. 
Farewell !  the  birds  of  Eden, 
Ye  shall  hear  nevermore. 
Floicer-Hpirits. 

We  linger,  we  linger, 

The  last  of  the  throng, 
Like  the  tones  of  a  singer 

Who  loves  his  own  song. 
We  are  spirit-aromas 

Of  blossom  and  bloom. 
We  call  3'our  thoughts  home  as 

Ye  breathe  our  perfume — 
To  th's  amaranth's  splendor 

Afire  on  the  slopes  ; 
To  the  lily-bells  tender. 

And  gre}'  heliotropes ; 
To  the  popi)y-plains  keeping 

Such  dream-breath  and  blee 
That  the  angels  there  stepping 

Grew  whiter  to  see: 
To  the  nook,  set  with  moly, 

Ye  jested  one  da^^  in. 
Till  your  smile  waxed  too  holy 

And  left  yonv  lips  praj'ing  : 
To  the  rose  in  the  bower-place 

That  dripped  o'er  3-ou  sleeping; 
To  the  asphodel  flower-place, 
Ye  walked  ankle-deep  in  ! 
We  pluck  at  your  raiment, 

We  stroke  down  3'our  hair, 
We  faint  in  our  lament 
And  pine  into  air. 

Fare  ye  well,  farewell ! 
The  Eden  scents,  no  longer  sensible, 
Expire  at  Eden's  door. 
Each  footstep  of  your  treading 
Treads  out  some  fragrance  which  ye  knew  before 
Farewell !  the  flowers  of  Eden, 
Ye  shall  smell  nevermore. 

[^Tiiere  is  silence.  Adam  and  Eve  fly  on ^  and  never  look  bacx. 
Only  a  colossal  shadoic,  as  of  (he  dark  Angel  passing  quickly,  ii 
eiit  upon  the  Sword-^lare. 


A     D  R  A  M  A     O  F      E  X  I  L  E .  85 

Scene. —  Tlie  cxtrcmihj  of  the  Sxcord-ijlare. 

Adam.  Pausing  a  moment  on  this  outer  edo-e 
Where  the  sui)ernal  s\v(jr(l-glare  cuts  inlioht 
The  dark  exterior  desert — liast  thou  strength, 
Deloved,  to  look  behind  us  to  the  gate? 

Eve.  Have  I  not  strengtii  to  h)ok  uj)  to  tiiy  face? 

Adam.  We  need  be  strong :  yon  spectacle  of  cloud 
\Vhich  seals  the  gate  up  to  the  final  doom, 
Is  God's  seal  manifest.     There  seem  to  lie 
A  hundred  thunders  in  it,  dark  and  dead  ; 
The  unmoltcn  lightnings  vein  it  motionless : 
And,  outward  from  its  depth,  the  self-moved  sword 
Swings  slow  its  awful  gnomon  of  red  fire 
From  side  to  side,  in  i)endulous  horror  slow, 
Across  the  stagnant,  ghastly  glare  thrown  fiat 
On  the  intermediate  ground  from  that  to  this. 
The  angelic  hosts,  the  archangelic  pom})s, 
Tlirones,  dominations,  priiicedoms,  rank  on  rank, 
]\ising  sublimely  to  the  feet  of  God, 
<)n  either  side  and  overhead  the  gate. 
Show  like  a  glittering  and  sustained  smoke 
Drawn  to  an  apex.     That  their  faces  shine 
Betwixt  the  solemn  clasping  of  their  wings 
Clasped  high  to  a  silver  point  above  theii-  heads — 
We  only  guess  from  hence,  and  not  discern. 

Ece.  Though  we  were  near  enough  to  see  tiiem  shine, 
The  shadow  on  i\\y  face  were  awl'uller, 
To  me,  at  least — to  me — than  all  their  light. 

Adam.   WXvaX.  is  this,  Eve?   Ihou  droppest  heavily 
In  a  heap  earthward,  and  thy  body  heaves 
Under  the  golden  floodings  of  thine  hair! 

Eve.  0  Adam,  Adam  !  by  that  name  of  Eve — 
Thine  Eve,  thy  life — which  suits  me  little  now, 
Seeing  that  I  now  confess  myself  thy  death 
And  thine  undoer,  as  the  snake  was  mine — 
I  do  adjure  thee,  put  me  straight  away, 
Together  witli  my  name.     Sweet,  punish  rae  ! 
O  Love,  be  just  !  and,  ere  we  pass  beyond 
The  light  ca.st  outward  l)y  the  fiery  sword. 
Into  the  dark  which  earth  must  be  to  us. 
Bruise  my  head  with  th}'  foot — as  the  curse  said 
My  seed  shall  the  first  tempter's  !  strike  Avith  curse, 
As  God  struck  in  the  garden  !   and  as  IIK, 
Ijeing  satisfied  with  justice  and  with  wrath, 
Did  roll  His  thunder  gentler  at  the  close, 


36  A     DRAMA      OF     EXILE 

Thou,  peradventure,  may'st  at  last  recoil 
To  some  soft  need  of  mercy.     Strike,  my  lord  ! 
I,  also,  after  tempting,  writhe  on  the  grountl, 
And  I  would  feed  on  ashes  from  thine  hand, 
As  suits  me,  0  my  tempted  ! 

Adam.  My  beloved. 

Mine  Eve  and  life — I  have  no  other  name 
For  thee  or  for  the  sun  than  what  ye  are. 
My  utter  life  and  light !     If  we  have  fallen, 
It  is  that  we  have  sinned — we  :   God  is  just ; 
And,  since  His  curse  doth  comprehend  us  both, 
It  must  be  that  His  balance  holds  the  weights 
Of  first  and  last  sin  on  a  level.     What ! 
Shall  I  who  had  not  virtue  to  stand  straight 
Among  the  hills  of  Eden,  here  assume 
To  mend  the  justice  of  the  perfect  God, 
By  piling  np  a  curse  upon  His  curse. 
Against  thee — thee — 

Eve.  For  so,  perchance,  thy  G''>d 

Miglit  take  thee  into  grace  for  scorning  me ; 
Tliy  wrath  against  the  sinner  giving  proof 
Of  inward  abrogation  of  the  sin. 
\\\(X  so,  the  blessed  angels  might  come  down 
And  walk  with  thee  as  erst — I  think  they  would — 
Because  I  was  not  near  to  make  them  sad 
Or  soil  the  rustling  of  their  innocence. 

Adam.   They  know  me.     I  am  deepest  in  the  gu  It 
If  last  in  the  transgression. 

Ece.  Thou  ! 

Adam.  If  God, 

"Who  gave  the  right  and  joyaunce  of  the  world 
Both  unto  thee  and  me — gave  thee  to  me. 
The  best  gift  last,  the  last  sin  was  the  worst, 
^Vhich  sinned  against  more  complement  of  gifts 
And  grace  of  giving.     God!     I  render  back 
Strong  benediction  and  perpetual  praise 
From  mortal  feeble  lips  (as  incense-smoke, 
Out  of  a  little  censer,  may  fill  heaven), 
That  Thou,  in  striking  my  benumbed  hands 
And  forcing  them  to  drop  all  other  boons 
Of  beauty  and  dominion  and  delight — 
Hast  left  this  well-beloved  Eve,  this  life 
^Vithin  life,  this  best  gift  between  their  palms. 
In  gracious  compensation  ! 

Eve.  Is  it  thy  voice  1 

Or  some  salutin"-  angel's — calling  home 


A      DRAMA      OF     EXILE 

My  feet  into  the  garden  ? 

Adam.  0  mj'  God\* 

I,  standing  here  between  the  glory  and 
The  glory  of  thy  wrath  projected  forth 
From  Eden's  wall,  the  dark  of  onr  distress 
Which  settles  a  step  off  in  that  drear  world — 
Lift  up  to  Thee  the  hands  from  whence  hath  fallen 
Only  creation's  sceptre — thanking  Thee 
That  rather  T'hou  hast  cast  me  out  with  her 
Than  left  me  lorn  of  her  in  Paradise, 
With  angel  looks  and  angel  songs  around 
To  show  the  absence  of  her  eyes  and  voice, 
And  make  society  full  desertness 
Without  her  use  in  comfort ! 

Eve.  Where  is  loss  ? 

Am  I  in  Eden  ?  can  another  speak 
Mine  own  love's  tongue  ? 

Adam.  Because  with  her,  I  stand 

Upriiiht,  as  far  as  can  be  in  this  fall, 
And  look  away  from  heaven  which  doth  accuse, 
And  look  away  from  earth  which  doth  convict. 
Into  her  face,  and  crown  my  discrowned  brow 
Out  of  her  love,  and  put  the  thought  of  her 
Around  me,  for  an  Eden  full  of  birds, 
And  lift  her  body  up — thus — to  my  heart, 
And  with  m}'  lips  upon  her  lips — thus,  thus — 
Do  quicken  and  sublimate  my  mortal  breath 
Which  cannot  climb  against  the  grave's  steep  sides 
But  overtops  this  grief! 

Eve.  I  am  renewed. 

My  eyes  grow  with  the  light  which  is  in  thine  ; 
The  silence  of  my  heart  is  full  of  sound. 
Hold  me  up — so  !     Because  I  comprehend 
This  human  love,  I  shall  not  be  afraid 
Of  any  human  death  ;  and  yet  because 
I  know  this  strength  of  love,  I  seem  to  know 
Death's  strength  by  that  same  sign.     Kiss  on  my  lips 
To  shut  the  door  close  on  my  rising  soul — 
Lest  it  pass  outwards  in  astonishment 
And  leave  thee  lonely. 

Adam.  Yet  thou  liest,  Eve, 

Bent  heavilv  on  tliyself  across  mine  arm, 
Thy  face  flat  to  the  sky. 

Eve.  Ay  !  and  the  tears 

Running,  as  it  might  seem,  my  life  from  me, 
They  run  so  fast  and  warm.     Let  me  lie  so. 
4 


38  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

And  weep  so,  as  if  in  a  dream  or  prayer, 

Unfastening,  clasp  by  clasp,  the  hard,  tight  thought 

Which  clipijed  iny  heart  and  showed  me  evermore 

Loathed  of  th^- justice  as  I  loathe  the  snake, 

And  as  the  pure  ones  loathe  our  sin.     To-da}-, 

.A-U  day,  beloved,  as  we  fled  across 

This  desolating  radiance  cast  by  swords 

Not  suns — ni}^  lips  prayed  soundless  to  m\-self, 

Striking  against  each  other — "  O  Lord  God  !'' 

('Twas  so  I  pra3ed)  "  I  ask  Thee  b^'  my  sin. 

And  by  thy  curse,  and  b}'  tli3'  blameless  heavens, 

Make  dreadful  haste  to  hide  me  from  thy  face  * 

And  from  the  face  of  my  beloved  here. 

For  whom  I  am  no  helpmeet,  quick  away 

Into  the  new  dark  m^'stery  of  death  ! 

I  will  lie  still  there,  J  will  make  no  plaint, 

I  will  not  sigh,  nor  sob,  nor  speak  a  word, 

Nor  struggle  to  come  back  beneath  the  sun 

Where  peradventure  I  might  sin  anew 

Against  thy  mercy  and  his  pleasure.     Death, 

Oh  death,  whate'er  it  be,  is  good  enough 

For  such  as  I  am.     While  for  Adam  here 

No  voice  shall  say  again  in  heaven  or  earth. 

It  is  not  good  for  him  to  he  alone." 

Adam.  And  M'as  it  good  for  such  a  prayer  to  pass, 
M3'  unkind  Eve,  betwixt  our  mutual  lives'? 
If  I  am  exiled,  must  I  be  bereaved  ? 

Eve.  'Twas  an  ill  prayer:  it  shall  be  prayed  no  more  j 
And  God  did  use  it  like  a  foolishness, 
Giving  no  answer.     Now  my  heart  has  grown 
Too  high  and  strong  for  such  a  foolish  ])r:iyer; 
Love  makes  it  strong :  and  since  I  was  the  first 
In  the  transgression,  with  a  steady  foot 
I  will  be  the  first  to  tread  from  this  sword-glare 
Into  the  outer  darkness  of  the  waste — 
And  thus  I  do  it. 

Adam.  Thus  I  follow  thee, 

As  erewhile  in  the  sin.     What  sounds  !  what  sounds  1 
[  feel  a  music  which  comes  straight  from  Heaven, 
As  tender  as  a  watering  dew. 

Eve.  I  think 

That  angels — not  those  guarding  Paradise — 
But  the  love-angels,  Avho  came  erst  to  us, 
A:k1  when  we  said  "God,"  fainted  unawares 
Back  from  our  mortal  presence  unto  God, 
(As  if  he  drew  them  inward  in  a  breath) 


A     D  H  A  M  A      0  r      E  X  1  L  E  .  39 

flis  name  being  heard  of  them — I  think  that  they   . 
With  sliding  voices  lean  from  heavenly  towers, 
Invisible  but  gracious.     Hark — how  soft  1 


CHORUS  OF  INVISIBLE  ANGELS. 
Faint  and  tender. 

Mortal  man  and  woman, 

Go  upon  your  travel ! 
Heaven  assist  the  human 

Smoothly  to  unravel 
All  that  web  of  pain 

Wherein  ya  are  holden. 
Do  ye  know  our  voices 

Chanting  down  the  Golden  ? 
Do  3'e  guess  our  choice  is, 

Being  unbeholden, 
To  be  barkened  by  j'ou  yet  again  ? 

This  pure  door  of  opal 

God  hath  shut  between  us — 
Us,  his  shining  people, 

You,  who  once  have  seen  us 
And  are  blinded  new  1 

Yet,  across  the  doorway, 
Past  the  silence  reaching, 

Farewells  evermore  may, 
Blessing  in  the  teaching, 

Glide  from  us  to  you. 

^irst  semi-chorus. 

Think  how  erst  your  Eden, 
Day  on  day  succeeding, 
"With  our  presence  glowed. 
We  came  as  if  the  Heavens  were  bowed 

To  a  milder  music  rare. 
Ye  saw  us  in  our  solemn  treading. 
Treading  down  the  steps  of  cloud, 
While  our  wings  outspreading 
Double  calms  of  whiteness. 
Dropped  superflous  brightness 
Down  from  stair  to  stair. 
Second  semi-chorus. 

Or  oft,  abrupt  though  tender. 

While  3'e  gazed  on  space. 
We  flashed  our  angel-splendor 
In  either  human  fac3. 


40  A     DRAMA     OF      EXILE. 

With  mystic  lilies  in  our  hands, 
From  the  atmospheric  bands 
Breaking  with  a  sudden  grace. 
We  took  you  unaware  ! 
"While  our  feet  struck  glories 
Outward,  smooth  and  fair, 
"Which  we  stood  on  floorwise, 
Platformed  in  mid  air. 
First  semi-chorus. 

Or  oft,  when  Heaven-descended, 
Stood  we  in  j'our  wondering  sight 
In  a  mute  apocalypse  ! 
"With  dumb  vibrations  on  our  lips 
From  hosannas  ended, 
And  grand  half-vanishings 
Of  the  empyreal  things 
"Within  our  eyes  belated. 
Till  the  heavenly  Infinite 
Falling  off  from  the  Created, 
Left  our  inward  contemplation 
Opened  into  ministration. 
Chorus. 

Then  upon  our  axle  turning 
Of  great  joy  to  sympathy, 
"We  sang  out  the  morning 
Broadening  up  the  sky. 
Or  we  drew 
Our  music  through 
The  noontide's  hush  and  heat  and  shine. 
Informed  with  our  intense  Divine ! 
Interrupted  vital  notes 
Palpitating  hither,  thither. 
Burning  out  into  the  setlier. 
Sensible  like  fiery  motes. 

Or,  whenever  twilight  drifted 
Through  the  cedar  masses, 
The  globed  sun  we  lifted, 
Trailing  purple,  trailing  gold 

Out  between  the  passes 
Of  the  mountains  manifold. 

To  anthems  slowly  sung ! 
"While  he,  aweary,  half  in  swoon 
For  joy  to  hear  our  climbing  tune 
Transpierce  the  stars'  concentric  rings— 
The  burden  of  his  glory  flung 
In  broken  lights  upon  our  wings. 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  41 

\_Tlte  chant  dies  aicai/  covfimrdli/,  and  Lucifer  appears. 

Luc.  Now  may  all  fruits  be  pleasant  to  thy  lips, 
Beautiful  Eve  !     The  times  have  somewhat  changed 
Since  thou  and  I  had  talk  beneath  a  tree, 
Albeit  ye  are  not  gods  yet. 

Eve.  Adam  !  hold 

My  right  hand  strongly.     It  is  Lucifer — 
And  we  have  love  to  lose. 

Adam.  I'  the  name  of  God, 

Go  apart  from  us,  0  thou  Lucifer ! 
And  leave  us  to  the  desert  thou  hast  made 
Out  of  thy  treason.     Bring  no  serpent-slime 
Atliwart  this  path  kept  holy  to  our  tears, 
Or  we  may  curse  thee  with  their  bitterness. 

Luc.   Curse  freely  !  curses  thicken.     Wh}',  this  Eve 
Who  thought  me  once  part  worthy  of  her  ear. 
And  somewhat  wiser  than  the  other  beasts — 
Drawing  togetlier  her  large  globes  of  eyes, 
The  light  of  which  is  throbbing  in  and  out 
Their  steadfast  continuity  of  gaze — 
Knots  her  fair  eyebrows  in  so  hard  a  knot, 
And  down  from  her  white  heights  of  womanhood 
Looks  on  me  so  amazed — I  scarce  should  fear 
To  wager  such  an  apple  as  she  plucked. 
Against  one  riper  from  the  tree  of  life. 
That  she  could  curse  too — as  a  woman  may — 
Smooth  in  the  vowels. 

Eve.  So — speak  wickedly  ! 

I  like  it  best  so.     Let  thy  words  be  wounds — ■ 
For,  so,  I  shall  not  fear  thy  power  to  hurt. 
Trench  on  the  forms  of  good  b.y  open  ill — 
For,  so,  I  shall  wax  strong  and  grand  with  scorn, 
Scorning  m3'self  for  ever  trusting  thee 
As  far  as  thinking,  ere  a  snake  ate  dust, 
He  could  speak  wisdom. 

Luc.  Our  new  gods,  it  seems, 

Deal  more  in  thunders  than  in  courtesies. 
And,  sooth,  mine  own  Olympus,  which  anon 
I  shall  build  up  to  loud-voiced  imagery 
From  all  the  wandering  visions  of  the  world. 
May  show  worse  railing  than  our  lady  Eve 
Pours  o'er  the  rounding  of  her  argent  arm. 
But  why  should  this  be  ?     Adam  pardonetl  Eve. 

Adam.  Adam  loved  Eve.     Jehovah  pardoned  both 

Eve.  Adam  forgave  Eve — because  loving  Eve. 

Luc.  So,  well.     Yet  Adam  was  undone  of  Eve, 
4* 


4-2  A      DRAMA      OF      EXILE. 

As  both  were  by  the  snake.  Therefore  forgive, 
In  like  wise,  fellow-temptress,  the  poor  snake — 
Who  stung  there  not  so  poorly  !  [^Aside 

Eve.  Hold  thy  wrath, 

Beloved  Adam  !  let  me  answer  him  ; 
For  this  time  he  speaks  truth,  which  w^e  should  hear, 
And  asks  for  mercy,  which  I  most  should  grant, 
In  like  wise,  as  he  tells  us — in  like  wise  ! 
And  therefore  I  thee  pardon,  Lucifer, 
As  freely  as  the  streams  of  Eden  flowed 
"When  we  were  happy  by  them.     So,  depart ; 
Leave  us  to  walk  the  remnant  of  our  time 
Out  mildly  in  the  desert.     Do  not  seek 
To  harm  us  any  more  or  scoff  at  us 
Or  ere  the  dust  be  laid  upon  our  face 
To  find  there  the  communion  of  the  dust 
And  issue  of  the  dust.     Go. 

Adam.  At  once,  go. 

Luc.  Forgive  !  and  go  !     Ye  images  of  clay, 
Shrunk  somewhat  in  the  mould — what  jest  is  this  ? 
What  words  are  these  to  use  ?     B3'  what  a  thought 
Conceive  .ye  of  me  ?     Yesterdaj- — a  snake  ! 
To-day— what  ? 

Adam.  A  strong  spirit. 

Eve.  A  sad  spirit. 

Adam.  Perhaps  a  fallen  angel.     Who  shall  say ! 

Luc.  Who  told  thee,  Adam  ? 

Adam.  Thou  !     The  prodigy 

Of  thy  vast  brows  and  melanchol}-  eyes 
Which  comprehend  the  heights  of  some  great  fall. 
I  think  that  thou  hast  one  day  Avorn  a  crown 
Under  the  e3'es  of  God. 

Luc.  And  why  of  God  ? 

Adam.  It  were  no  crown  else.     Yerily  I  think 
Thou'rt  fallen  far.     I  had  not  yesterday 
Said  it  so  sureh',  but  I  know  to-day 
Grief  by  grief,  sin  by  sin  ! 

Luc.  A  crown,  by  a  crown 

Adam.  A3',  mock  me !  now  I  know  more  than  I 
knew : 
Now  I  know  thou  art  fi\llen  below  hope 
Of  final  re-ascent. 

Luc.  Because  ? 

Adam.  Because 

A  spirit  who  expected  to  see  God 
Though  at  the  last  point  of  a  million  years, 


A      D  11 A  IMA      OF     EXILE.  4S 

Coiilil  dare  no  mockery  of  a  ruined  man 
Such  as  this  Adam. 

Luc.  Who  is  liigh  and  bold — 

1)0  it  said  passing  ! — of  a  good  red  clay 
Discovered  on  some  top  of  Lebanon, 
Or  haply  of  Aornus,  beyond  sweep 
Of  the  black  eagle's  wi-ng  !     A  furlong  lower 
Had  made  a  meeker  king  for  Eden.     Soh  ! 
Is  it  not  possible,  by  sin  and  griel 
(To  give  tlie  things  your  names)  that  spirits  should  rise 
Instead  of  falling  ? 

Adam.  Most  impossible. 

•The  Highest  being  the  Holy  and  the  Glad, 
Whoever  I'ises  must  approach  delight 
And  sanctity  in  the  act. 

Luc.  Ha,  m}^  clay -king! 

Thou  wilt  not  rule  b}'  wisdom  very  long 
The  after  generations.     Earth,  methinks, 
Will  disinherit  thy  philosophy 
For  a  new  doctrine  suited  to  thine  heirs, 
And  class  these  present  dogmas  with  the  rest 
Of  the  old-world  traditions,  Eden  fruits 
And  Saurian  fossils. 

Eve.  Speak  no  more  with  him, 

Beloved  !  it  is  not  good  to  si)eak  with  him. 
Go  from  us,  Lucifer,  and  speak  no  more  ! 
We  have  no  pardon  which  thou  dost  not  scorn. 
Xor  any  bless,  thou  seest,  for  coveting, 
Xor  innocence  for  staining.     Being  bereft, 
We  would  be  alone. — Go. 

Luc.  Ah  !  j-e  talk  the  same, 

All  of  you — spirits  and  clay — go,  and  depart! 
\\\  Heaven  they  said  so  ;  and  at  Eden's  gate — 
And  here,  reiterant,  in  the  wilderness. 
None  saith.  Stay  with  me,  for  thy  face  is  fair ! 
None  saith,  Sta}'  with  me,  for  th}'  voice  is  sweet  ! 
Andj'et  I  was  not  fashioned  out  of  clay. 
Look  on  me,  woman  !     Am  I  beautiful  ? 

Eve.   Thou  hast  a  glorious  darkness. 

Luc.  Xotliing  more. 

Eve.  I  think,  no  more. 

Luc.  False  Heart — thou  thinkest  more 

Thou  canst  not  choose  but  think,  as  I  praise  Got  I, 
Unwillingly  but  fully,  that  I  stand 
Most  absolute  in  beauty.     As  yourselves 
Were  fashioned  verv  gfood  at  best,  so  we     ■ 


44  A      PR  A  MA     OF      EXILE 

Sprang  very  beauteous  from  the  creant  Word 

AVhich  thrilled  behind  us,  God  Himself  being  moved 

When  that  august  work  of  a  perfect  shape 

His  dignities  of  sovran  angel-hood 

Swept  out  into  the  Universe — divine 

AVith  thunderous  movements,  earnest  looks  of  gods, 

And  silver-solemn  clash  of  cymbal  wings  ! 

Whereof  was  I,  in  motion  and  in  form, 

A  part  not  poorest.     And  yet — yet,  perhaps, 

This  beauty  which  I  speak  of,  is  not  here, 

As  God's  voice  is  not  here,  nor  even  my  crown — 

I  do  not  know.     Wiiat  is  this  thought  or  thing 

Which  I  call  beauty  ?  is  it  thought,  or  thing? 

Is  it  a  thought  accepted  for  a  thing  ? 

Or  both  ?  or  neither  ? — a  pretext — a  word  ? 

Its  meaning  flutters  in  me  like  a  flame 

Under  my  own  breath:  m^'  perceptions  reel 

For  evermore  around  it,  and  fall  off", 

As  if  it  too  were  holy. 

Eve.  Which  it  is. 

Adam.  The  essence  of  all  beaut3',  I  call  love. 
The  attribute,  the  evidence,  and  end, 
The  consummation  to  the  inward  sense. 
Of  beauty  apprehended  from  without, 
I  still  call  love.     As  form,  when  colorless, 
Is  nothing  to  the  eye — that  pine-tree  there, 
Without  its  black  and  green,  being  all  a  blank — 
So,  without  love,  is  beauty  undiscerned 
In  man  or  angel.     Angel !  rather  ask 
What  love  is  in  thee,  what  love  moves  to  thee. 
And  what  collateral  love  moves  on  with  thee ; 
Then  shalt  thou  know  if  thou  art  beautiful. 

Luc.  Love  !  what  is  love  ?  1  lose  it.    Beauty  and  love 
I  darken  to  the  image.     Beautj' — love  ! 

^Ile  fades  atvai/,  ichile  a  loiv  music  sounds. 

Adam.  Thou  art  pale,  Eve. 

Eve.  The  precipice  of  ill 

Down  this  colossal  nature,  dizzies  me — 
And  hark  !  the  starry  harmony  remote 
Seems  measuring  the  heights  from  whence  he  fell. 

Adam.  Think  that  we  have  not  fallen  so.   By  the  hope 
And  aspiration,  b}^  the  love  and  faith, 
We  do  exceed  the  stature  of  this  angel. 

Eve.  Happier  we  are  than  he  is,  by  the  death. 

Adam.  Or  rather  b}'  the  life  of  the  Lord  God  1 


A     D  R  A  M  A     O  F      E  X  T  L  E  45 

flow  dim  the  angel  grows,  as  if  that  blast 
Of  music  swept  him  back  into  the  dark. 

\^T/ie  viitsic  in  stronger,  (jutherbnj  iheJf  into  uncertain  artind  ilvn 

Eve.  It  throbs  in  on  us  like  a  plaintive  heart, 
Pressing,  with  slow  pulsations,  vibrative, 
Its  gradual  sweetness  through  the  yielding  air, 
To  sucli  expressions  as  the  stars  may  use. 
Most  starry-sweet  and  strange!     V\"\i\\  every  note 
That  grows  more  loud,  the  angel  grows  more  dim. 
Receding  in  proportion  to  approach, 
Until  he  stand  afar — a  shade. 

Adam.  •     Now,  words. 

SONG  OF  THE  JIORNING  STAR  TO  LUCIFER. 
If e  fades  ulterhj  aivay  a7ul' vanishes,  as  il  proceeil<. 

Mine  orbed  image  sinks 

Back  from  thee,  back  from  thee, 
As  thou  art  fallen,  methinks, 
Back  from  me,  back  from  me. 
0  mj'  light-bearer, 
Could  another  fairer 
Lack  to  thee,  lack  to  thee  ? 
Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros ! 
I  loved  thee  with  the  fiery  love  of  stars 
Who  love  In'  burning,  and  by  loving  move, 
Too  near  the  throned  Jeliovah  not  to  love. 

Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros  ! 
Their  brows  flash  fast  on  me  from  gliding  cars, 
Pale-passioned  for  my  loss. 
Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros  ! 

Mine  orbed  heats  drop  cold 

Down  from  thee,  down  from  thee, 
As  fell  thy  grace  of  old 

Down  from  me,  down  from  me. 
0  my  light-bearer, 
Is  another  fairer 
Won  to  thee,  Avon  to  thee  ? 
Ah,  ah,  Heosplioros, 
Great  love  preceded  loss, 
Known  to  thee,  known  to  thee. 
Ah,  ah ! 
Thou,  breathing  l\\y  communicable  grace 
Of  life  into  ni}-  light, 


4R  A      DRAMA      OF      EXILE. 

Mine  astral  faces,  from  thine  angel  face, 

Hast  iuly  fed, 
And  flooded  me  with  radiance  o\crmuch 

From  thy  pure  height. 
Ah,  ah ! 

Thou,  with  calm,  floating  pinions  both  wa^s  spread, 

Erect,  irradiated. 

Didst  sting  my  wheel  of  glory 

On,  on  before  tliee 
Alono-  the  Godlight  b}'  a  quickening  touch! 

Ha,  ha  ! 
Around,  around  the  firmamental  ocean 
I  swam  expanding  with  delirious  fire ! 
Around,  around,  around,  in  blind  desire 
To  be  drawn  upward  to  the  Infinite — 

Ha,  ha  ! 
Until,  the  motion  flinging  out  the  motion 
To  a  keen  win rl  of  passion  and  avidity, 
To  a  dim  whirl  of  languor  and  delight, 
I  wound  in  girant  orbits  smooth  and  white 

"With  that  intense  rapidity. 

Around,  around, 

I  wound  and  interwound. 
While  all  the  cyclic  heavens  about  me  spun. 
Stars,  planets,  suns,  and  moons  dilated  broad, 
Then  flashed  together  into  a  single  sun, 

And  wound,  and  wound  in  one. 
And  as  they  wound  I  wound — around,  around, 
In  a  great  fire  I  almost  took  for  God  ! 
Ha,  ha,  Heos^Dhoros ! 

Thine  angel  glory  sinks 

Down  from  me,  down  from  me — 
My  beauty  falls,  me  thinks, 

Down  tVom  thee,  down  from  thee ! 
0  my  light-bearer, 
0  ni}-  path-preparer. 
Gone  from  me,  gone  from  me ! 
Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros  ! 
I  cannot  kindle  underneatli  the  ])vow 
Of  this  new  angel  here,  who  is  not  Thou. 
All  thiniis  are  altered  since  that  time  ago— 
A.nd  if  I  shine  at  eve  I  shall  not  know. 
I  am  strange — I  am  slow. 
Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros  I 


A      DRAMA      OF      EXILE. 

Henceforward,  liunian  e3'es  of  lovers  be 
The  only  sweetest  sight  that  I  shall  see, 
With  tears  between  the  looks  raised  up  to  mo 

Ah,  ah ! 
When,  having  wept  all  night,  at  break  of  day 
Above  the  folded  hills  they  shall  survey 
My  light,  a  little  trembling,  in  the  grey 

Ah,  ah  I 
And  gazing  on  me,  such  shall  comprehend, 
Through  all  my  piteous  pomp  at  morn  or  even, 
And  melancholy  leaning  out  of  heaven, 
That  love,  their  own  divine,  may  change  or  end, 
That  love  may  close  in  loss  ! 
Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros  ! 


ScEXE. — Farther  on.     A  wild  open  country  seen  vafjudy  in 
the  approaching  niyht. 

Adam.  How  doth  the  wide  and  melancholy  earth 
Gather  her  hills  around  us,  grey  and  ghast. 
And  stare  with  blank  significance  of  loss 
Right  in  our  faces  !     Is  the  wind  up  ? 

Eve.  Nay. 

Adam.  And  3'et  the  cedars  and  the  junii)ers 
Rock  slowly-  through  the  mist,  without  a  sound, 
And  shapes  which  have  no  certainty  of  shape 
Drift  duskly  in  and  out  between  the  pines. 
And  loom  along  the  edges  of  the  hills, 
And  lie  flat,  curdling  in  the  open  ground — 
Shadows  without  a  body,  which  contract 
And  lengthen  as  we  gaze  on  them. 

Eve.  0  life 

Which  is  not  man's  or  angel's  !     What  is  this  ? 

Adam.  Ko  cause  for  fear.     The  circle  of  God's  life 
Contains  all  life  beside. 

Eve.  I  think  the  earth 

Is  crazed  with  curse,  and  wanders  from  the  sense 
Of  those  first  laws  affixed  to  form  and  space 
Or  ever  she  knew  sin. 

Adam.  We  Avill  not  fear: 

We  were  brave  sinning. 

Eve.  Yea,  I  plucked  the  fruit 

With  eyes  upturned  to  heaven  and  seeing  there 
Our  god-thrones,  as  the  tempter  said — not  God. 
My  heart,  which  beat  then,  sinks.     The  sun  hath  sui-.k 
Out  of  sioht  with  our  Eden. 


iri  A      D  U  A  M  A      O  F      E  X  I  L  E  . 

Adam.  Night  is  near. 

Eve.  And  God's  curse,  nearest.    Let  us  travel  back 
And  stand  within  the  sword-glare  till  we  die, 
Believing  it  is  better  to  meet  death 
Than  suffer  desolation. 

Adam.  ^^Y,  beloved  ! 

We  must  not  pluck  death  from  the  Maker's  hand, 
As  erst  we  plucked  the  apple:  w-e  must  wait 
Until  He  gives  death  as  He  gave  us  life. 
Nor  murmur  faintl^^  o'er  the  primal  gift 
Because  we  spoilt  its  sweetness  with  our  sin. 

Uve.  Ah,  ah  !  dost  thou  discern  what  I  behold  ? 

Adam.  I  see  all.     How  the  spirits  in  thine  eyes 
Fiom  their  dilated  orbits  bound  before 
To  meet  the  spectral  Dread  I 

Eve.  I  am  afraid — 

Ah,  ah  1  the  twilight  bristles  wild  with  shapes 
Of  intermittent  motion,  aspect  vague 
And  m3-stic  bearings,  which  o'ercreep  tlie  earth, 
Keeijing  slow  time  with  horrors  in  tlie  blood. 
How  near  they  reach  .  .  .  and  far!     How  grey  they 

move — 
Treading  upon  the  darkness  without  feet, 
And  fluttering  on  the  darkness  witliout  wings! 
Some  run  like  dogs,  with  noses  to  the  ground; 
Some  keep  one  path,  like  sheep  ;  some  rock  like  trees  • 
Some  glide  like  a  fallen  leaf :  and  some  flow  on 
Copious  as  rivers. 

Adam.  Some  spring  up  like  flre — ■ 

And  some  coil  .  .  . 

Eve.  Ah,  ah  !  dost  thou  pause  to  say 

Like  what? — coil  like  the  serpent,  when  he  fell 
From  all  the  emerald  splendor  of  his  height 
And  writhed,  and  could  not  climb  against  the  curse. 
Not  a  ring's  length.     I  am  afraid — afraid — 
I  think  it  is  God's  will  to  make  me  afraid — 
Permitting  these  to  haunt  us  in  the  place 
Of  His  beloved  angels — gone  from  us 
Because  we  are  not  pure.     Dear  Pity  of  God, 
That  didst  permit  the  angels  to  go  home 
Ind  live  no  more  with  us  avIio  are  not  pure, 
>>SLve  us  too  from  a  loathly  company — 
Almost  as  loathly  in  our  eyes,  perhaps. 
As  w;^  are  in  the  purest !     Pity  us — 
Us  too  1  nor  shut  us  in  the  dark,  away 
From  verity  and  from  stability, 


A     D  R  A  M  A      O  F      E  X  I  I.  E .  49 

Or  what  we  name  such  through  the  precedence 
Of  earth's  adjusted  uses — leave  us  not 
To  (Joubt  betwixt  our  senses  and  our  souls. 
Which  are  the  more  distraught  and  full  of  pain 
And  weak  of  apprehension. 

Adam.  Courage,  Sweet ! 

The  mystic  shapes  ebb  back  from  us,  and  drop 
With  slow  concentric  movement,  eacli  on  each — • 
Expressing  wider  spaces — and  collapsed 
In  lines  more  definite  for  imagery 
And  clearer  for  relation,  till  tht  throng 
Of  shapeless  spectra  merge  into  a  few 
Distinguishable  phantasms  vague  and  grand 
Which  sweep  out  and  around  us  vastily, 
And  hold  us  in  a  circle  and  a  calm. 

Eve.   Strange  phantasms  of  pale  shadow!  there  are 
twelve. 
Thou  who  didst  name  all  lives,  hast  names  for  these  ? 

Adam.  Methinks  this  is  the  zodiac  of  the  earth. 
Which  rounds  us  with  a  visionary  dread, 
Responding  with  twelve  shadowy  signs  of  earth. 
In  fantasque  apposition  and  approach, 
To  those  celestial,  constellated  twelve 
Which  palpitate  adown  the  silent  nights 
Under  the  pressure  of  the  hand  of  God 
Stretched  wide  in  benediction.     At  this  hour. 
Not  a  star  pricketh  the  flat  gloom  of  heaven  ! 
But,  girdling  close  our  nether  wilderness, 
The  zodiac-ligures  of  the  earth  loom  slow — 
Drawn  out,  as  suiteth  with  the  place  and  time. 
In  twelve  colossal  shades  instead  of  stars. 
Through  which  the  ecliptic  line  of  m3-stery 
Strikes  bleakly  with  an  unrelenting  scope. 
Foreshadowing  life  and  death. 

Eve.  By  dream  or  sense, 

Do  we  see  this  ? 

Adam.  Our  spirits  have  climbed  high 

By  reason  of  the  passion  of  our  grief. 
And,  from  the  top  of  sense,  looked  over  sense, 
To  the  significance  and  heart  of  things 
Rather  than  things  themselves. 

JEve.  And  the  dim  twelve  . 

Adam.  Are  dim  exponents  of  the  creature-iife 
As  earth  contains  it.     Gaze  on  them,  beloved  ! 
By  stricter  apprehension  of  the  sight. 
Suggestions  of  the  creatures  shall  assuage 
5  D 


'50  A      DRAMA      OF      EXILE. 

The  terror  of  the  shadows — what  is  known 

Subduing  the  unknown  and  taming  it 

From  all  j^rodigious  dread.     That  phantasm,  there, 

Presents  a  lion,  albeit  twenty  times 

As  large  as  any  lion — with  a  roar 

Set  soundless  in  his  vibratory  jaws, 

A.nd  a  strange  horror  stirring  in  his  mane. 

And,  there,  a  pendulous  shadow  seems  to  vveigh — 

Good  against  ill,  perchance  ;  and  there  a  crab 

I'uts  coldly  out  its  gradual  shadow-claws, 

Like  a  slow  blot  that  spi'eads — till  all  the  ground, 

Crawled  over  by  it,  seems  to  crawl  itself. 

A  bull  stands  horned  here  with  gibbous  glooms  ; 

And  a  ram  likewise!  and  a  scorpion  writhes 

Its  tail  in  ghastly  slime  and  stings  the  dark. 

This  way  a  goat  leaps  with  wild  blank  of  beard  ; 

And  here,  fantastic  fishes  duskly  float. 

Using  the  calm  for  waters,  while  their  fins 

Throb  out  quick  rhythms  along  the  shallow  air. 

While  images  more  human 

Eve.  HoAV  he  stands, 

That  phantasm  of  a  man — Avho  is  not  thou! 
Two  phantasms  of  two  men  I 

Adam.  One  that  sustains, 

And  one  that  strives — resuming,  so,  the  ends 
Of  manhood's  curse  of  labor.*     Dost  thou  see 
That  phantasm  of  a  woman  ? — 

Eve.  I  have  seen. 

But  look  off  to  those  small  humanities  f 
Which  draw  me  tenderly  across  my  fear — 
Lesser  and  fainter  than  my  womanhood 
Or  yet  thy  manhood — with  strange  innocence 
Set  in  the  misty  lines  of  head  and  hand. 
They  lean  together !     I  would  gaze  on  them 
Longer  and  longer,  till  my  watching  eyes, 
As  the  stars  do  in  watching  anything, 
Should  lischt  them  forward  from  their  outline  vague 
To  clear  confio-uration — 


*  Adam  recognizes  in  Aquarius,  the  water-bearer,  and  Sagit- 
tarius, the  archer,  tLe  distinct  types  of  the  man  bearing  and  the 
man  combating — the  passive  and  active  forms  of  human  labor 
I  hoi)e  that  the  preceding  zodiacal  signs — transferred  to  the 
earthly  shadow  and  representative  purpose — of  Aries,  Taurus, 
Cancer,  Leo,  Libra,  Scorpio,  Capricoruus,  and  Pisces,  are  suffi 
ciently  obvious  to  the  reader. 

t  Her  maternal  instinct  is  excited  by  Gemini. 


ADRAMAOFEXILE,  5] 

[7Vo  S27iri/x,  of  organic  andinor(/ai\ic  na/t/re  arise  from  thi 
ground. 

Btit  what  Shapes 
Uise  lip  between  us  in  the  open  space, 
And  thrust  me  into  horror,  back  from  hope! 

Adam.   Colossal  Shapes — twin  sovran  imaoes. 
With  a  disconsolate,  blank  majesty 
Set  in  their  wondrous  faces  !  with  no  look, 
And  yet  an  aspect— a  significance 
Of  individual  life  and  passionate  ends, 
Which  overcomes  us  gazing. 

0  bleak  sound, 

0  shadow  of  sound,  O  phantasm  of  thin  sound  ! 
How  it  comes,  wheeling  as  the  pale  moth  wheels, 
Wheeling  and  wheeling  in  continuous  wail 
Around  the  cyclic  zodiac,  and  gains  force, 
And  gathers,  settling  coldly,  like  a  moth,  ' 

On  the  wan  faces  of  these  imag-es 
■We  see  before  us — wherel\y  modified, 
It  draws  a  straight  line  of'articulate  song 
From  out  that  spiral  faintness  of  lament^ 
And,  by  one  voice,  expresses  many  griefs. 
Flr^t  Spirit. 

1  am  the  spirit  of  the  harmless  earth. 

God  spake  me  softly  out  among  the  stars. 
As  softly  as  a  blessing  of  much  worth  ; 

And  then,  his  smile  did  follow  unawares. 
That  all  things  fashioned  so  for  use  and  duty 
Might  shine  anointed  with  His  chrism  of  bea\itv— 

Yet  I  wail ! 
I  drave  on  with  the  worlds  exultingly. 

Obliquely  down  the  Godlight's  gradual  fall  ; 
Individual  aspect  and  complexity 

Of  giratory  orb  and  interval 
Lost  in  the  fluent  motion  of  delight 

Toward  the  high  ends  of  Being  beyond  sight 

Yet  I  wail  I 

Second  Spirit. 
I  am  the  spirit  of  the  harmless  beasts. 

Of  flying  things,  and  creeping  things,  and  swimming 
Of  all  the  lives,  erst  set  at  silent  feasts, 

That  found  the  love-kiss  on  the  goblet  brijnming. 
And  tasted  in  each  droj)  within  the  measure 
The  sweetest  pleasure  of  their  Lord's  good  pleasure — 
Yet  I  wail ! 


52  A      DRAMA      OP      EXILE. 

What  a  full  hum  of  life  around  His  lips 

Bore  witnesis  to  the  fuluess  of  creation  ! 
flow  all  the  grand  words  were  full-laden  ships 

Each  sailing  onward  from  enunciatid"n 
To  separate  existence — and  each  bearing 
The  creature's  power  of  joying,  hoping,  fearing ! 
.    Yet  I  wail ! 
Eve.  They  wail,  beloved!  they  speak  of  glory  and 
God,  ■ 

And  they  wail — wail.     That  burden  of  the  song 
Drops  from  it  like  its  fruit,  and  heavily  falls 
Into  the  lap  of  silence. 

Adam.  Hark,  again ! 

Firat  Sinrit. 
I  was  so  beautiful,  so  beautiful, 

My  ^oy  stood  up  within  me  bold  to  add 
A  word  to  God's — and,  when  his  work  wtis  full, 

To  "every  good,"  responded  "very  glad  !" 
Filtered  through  roses,  did  the  light  inclose  me, 

And  bunches  of  the  grapes  sw^am  blue  across  me 

Yet  I  wail ! 
Second  Spirit. 
I  bounded  with  my  panthers !  I  rejoiced 

In  my  young  tumbling  lions  rolled  together! 
M.y  stag,  the  river  at  his  fetlocks,  poised, 

Then  dipped  his  anLlers  throngli  tlie  golden  weather 
In  the  same  ripjjle  which  the  alligator 
Left,  in  his  joyous  troubling  of  the  water — 
Yet  I  wail ! 
First  Spirit. 
0  my  deep  waters,  cataract  and  flood, 

What  wordless  triumph  did  your  voices  render! 
0  mountain-summits,  where  the  angels  stood 

And    shook   from   head    and    wing    thick   dews   of 
splendor ! 
How,  with  a  holy  quiet,  did  your  Earthy 
Accept  that  Heavenly,  knowino:  ye  were  worth^M 
Yet  I  wain  " 
Second  Spirit. 
0  my  w  ild  wood-dogs,  with,  your  listening  eyes  I 

My  horses — my  ground-eagles,  for  swift  fleeing! 
M}'  birds,  with  viewdess  wings  of  harmonies, 

My  calm  cold  fishes  of  a  silver  being. 
How  happy  were  ye,  living  and  possessing, 
0  fair  half-souls  capacious  of  full  blessing! 
Yet  I  wail ! 


A     DRAMA      OF      EXILE.  53 

First  Spirit. 
I  wail,  I  w.iil !     Now  hear  my  charge  to-daj^ 

Thou  man,  thou  woman,  marked  as  the  misdoers 
By  God's  sword  at  your  backs  !   I  lent  my  clay 

To  make  jour  bodies,  which  had  grown  more  liowers  : 
And  now,  iu  change  for  what  I  lent,  ye  give  me 
Tlie  thorn  to  vex,  the  tempest-fire  to  cleave  me — 
And  I  wail  1 

Second  Spirit. 
1  wail,  I  wail !   ,  Behold  ye  that  I  fasten 

My  sorrow's  fang  upon  your  souls  dishonored? 
Accursed  transgressors!  down  the  steep  ye  hasten-— 

Your  crown's  weight  on  tlie  world,  to  drag  it  down- 
ward 
Unto  your  ruin.     Lo  !  my  lions,  scenting 
The  blood  of  wars,  roar  hoarse  and  unrelenting — 
And  I  wail! 

Fird  Spirit. 
I  wail,  I  wail !     Do  you  hear  that  I  wail  ? 

1  had  no  part  in  yoiw  transgression — none. 
My  roses  on  the  bough  did  bud  not  pale, 

My  rivers  dia  not  loiter  in  the  sun  ; 
/was  obedient.     Wherefore  in  my  centre 
Do  I  thrill  at  this  curse  of  death  and  winter? — 
Do  I  wail  ? 

Second  Spirit. 
I  wail,  I  wail !  I  wail  in  the  assault 

Of  undeserved  perdition,  sorel}'^  wounded! 
My  nightingale  sang  sweet  without  a  fault, 

My  gentle  leopards  innocently  bounded. 
We  were  obedient.     What  is  this  convulses 
Our  l)Uimeless  life  with  pangs  and  fever  pulses? 
And  I  wail ! 

Eve.  I  choose  God's  thunder  and  His  angels'  sworda 
To  die  by,  Adam,  rather  than  such  words. 
Let  us  pass  out  and  flee. 

Adam.  We  cannot  flee. 

This  zodiac  of  the  creatures'  crueltj' 
Curls  round  us,  like  a  river  cold  and  drear, 
And  shuts  us  iu,  constraining  us  to  hear. 

First  Spirit. 
\  feel  your  steps,  0  wandering  sinners,  strike 

A  sense  of  death  to  me,  and  undug  graves  ! 
The  heart  of  earth,  once  calm,  is  trembling  like 

The  ragged  foam  along  the  ocean-waves  : 
The  restless  earthquakes  rock  against  each  otlnr  • 
5* 


54  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

The  elements  moan  'round  me — "  Mother,  mother  f"-- . 
And  I  wail ! 
Second  Spirit. 
Tour  melancholy  looks  do  pierce  me  through  ; 

Corruption  swathes  the  paleness  of  your%eauty. 
Why  have  ye  done  this  thing  ?     What  did  we  do 
That  we  should  fall  from  bliss  as  ye  from  duty  ? 
Wild  shriek  the  hawks,  in  waiting  for  their  jesses, 
Fierce  howl  the  wolves  along  the  wildernesses—  ' 
And  I  wail ! 
Adam.  To  thee,  the  Spirit  of  the  harmless  earth, 
To  thee,  the  Spirit  of  earth's  harmless  lives, 
Inferior  creatures  but  still  innocent, 
Be  salutation  from  a  guilty  mouth 
Yet  worthy  of  some  audience  and  respect 
From  you  who  are  not  guilt^y.     If  we  have  sinned, 
God  hath  rebuked  us,  who  is  over  us 
To  give  rebuke  or  death,  and  if  ye  wail 
Because  of  any  suffering  from  our  sin, 
Ye  who  are  under  and  not  over  us. 
Be  satisfied  with  God,  if  not  with  us. 
And  pass  out  from  our  presence  in  such  peace 
As  we  have  left  you,  to  enjoy  revenge 
Such  as  the  Heavens  have  made  you.     Yerily, 
There  must  be  strife  between  us,  large  as  sin. 

Eve.  JS^o  strife,  mine  Adam  ?  Let  us  not  stand  hi^^b 
Upon  the  wrong  we  did  to  reach  disdain, 
Who  rather  should  be  humbler  evermore 

Since  self-made  sadder.     Adam  !  ihall  I  speak 

I  who  spake  once  to  such  a  bittei  end — 

Shall  I  speak  humbly  now,  who  once  was  proud  ? 

I,  schooled  by  sin  to  more  humility 

Than  thou  hast,  0  mine  Adam,  0  "my  king 

My  king,  if  not  the  world's  ? 

Adam.  Speak  as  thou  wilt. 

Eve.  Thus,  then — my  hand  in  thine — 

....   Sweet,  dreadful  Spirits  I 
^V^'^Y  jou  humbly  in  the  name  of  God, 
Not  to  say  of  these  tears,  which  are  impure — 
Grant  me  such  pardoning  grace  as  can  go  forth 
From  clean  volitions  toward  a  spotted  will. 
From  the  wronged  to  the  wronger,  this  and  no  more  ; 
I  do  not  ask  more.     I  am  'ware,  indeed. 
That  absolute  pardon  is  impossible 
From  you  to  me,  hy  reason  of  m}'  sin — 
And  that  I  cannot  evermore,  as  once, 


A      DRAMA      OF      EXILE.  {){) 

With  worthy  acceptation  of  pure  joy, 

BehoKl  the  trances  of  the  holy  hills 

Beneath  the  leaning  stars,  or  watch  the  vales 

Dew-pallid  with  their  morning  ecstasy — 

Or  hear  the  winds  make  pastoral  peace  between 

Two  grass}^  uplands — and  the  river-wells 

Work  out  their  bubbling  mysteries  under-ground — • 

And  all  the  birds  sing,  till  for  joy  of  song, 

They  lift  their  trembling  wings  as  if  to  heave 

The  too-much  weight  of  music  from  their  heart 

And  float  it  np  the  iether.     I  am  'ware 

That  these  things  I  can  no  more  apprehend 

With  a  pure  organ  into  a  full  delight — ■ 

The  sense  of  beauty  and  of  melody 

Being  no  more  aided  in  me  by  the  sense 

Of  personal  adjustment  to  those  heights 

Of  what  1  see  well-formed  or  hear  well-tuned, 

But  rather  coupled  darkl}^  and  made  ashamed 

By  my  percipiency  of  sin  and  fall 

In  melancholy  of  humiliant  thoughts. 

But  oh!  fair,  dreadful  Spirits — albeit  this 

Your  accusation  must  confront  my  soul, 

And  your  pathetic  utterance  and  full  gaze 

Must  evermore  subdue  me,  be  content — • 

Conquer  me  gentl}^ — as  if  pit3'ing  me. 

Not  to  sa}^  loving  I  let  my  tears  fall  thick 

As  watering  dews  of  Eden,  unreproached  ; 

And  when  your  tongues  reprove  me,  make  me  smooth, 

Not  ruffled — smooth  and  still  with  your  reproof, 

And  perad venture  better  while  more  sad. 

For  look  to  it  sweet  Spirits,  look  well  to  it, 

It  will  not  be  amiss  in  you  who  kept 

The  law  of  your  righteousness,  and  keep 

The  right  of  your  own  griefs  to  mourn  themselves — 

To  pity  me  twice  fallen,  from  that,  and  this. 

From  joy  of  place,  and  also  right  of  wail, 

"  I  wail  "  being  not  for  me — only  "  I  sin." 

Look  to  it,  O  sweet  Spirits  ! — 

For  was  I  not, 
At  that  last  sunset  seen  in  Paradise, 
When  all  the  westering  clouds  flashed  out  in  throngs 
Of  sudden  angel-faces,  face  by  face. 
All  hushed  and  solemn,  as  a  thought  of  God 
Held  them  suspended — was  I  not,  that  hour. 
The  lady  of  the  world,  princess  of  life, 
Mistress  offcast  and  favor?     Could  I  touch 


56  A      D  R  A  M  A      0  F      E  X  I  L  E . 

A  rose  with  1113^  white  hand,  but  it  became 

Redder  at  once  ?     Couhl  I  walk  leisurely 

Along  our  swarded  garden,  but  the  grass 

Tracked  me  with  greenness  ?     Could  I  stand  aside 

A  moment  underneath  a  cornel-tree, 

But  all  the  leaves  did  tremble  as  alive 

With  songs  of  fifty  birds  wlio  were  made  glad 

Because  1  stood  there?     Could  I  turn  tolook 

With  these  twain  eyes  of  mine,  now  weeping  fast, 

Now  good  for  only  weeping — upou  man, 

Angel,  or  beast,  or  bird,  but  cacli  rejoiced 

Because  I  looked  on  him  ?     Alas,  alas  ! 

And  is  not  this  much  woe,  to  cry  "  alas  !" 

Speaking  of  joy  ?     And  is  not  this  more  shame, 

To  have  made  the  woe  myself,  from  all  that  joy  ? 

To  have  stretched  1113-  hand,  and  plucked  it  from  the 

tree, 
And  chosen  it  for  fruit  ?     Nay,  is  not  this 
Still  most  despair — to  have  halved  that  bitter  fruit, 
And  ruined,  so,  the  sweetest  friend  1  have, 
Turning  the  Greatest  to  mine  enemy  ? 

Adam.  I    will   not    hear   thee  speak  so.     Hearken, 
Spirits ! 
Our  God,  who  is  the  enem}'  of  none 
But  onlj'  of  their  sin,  hath  set  3-our  hope 
And  m}'  hope,  in  a  promise,  ou  this  Head. 
Show  reverence,  then,  and  never  bruise  her  more 
With  unpermitted  and  extreme  reproach — 
Lest  passionate  in  anguish,  she  fling  down  . 
Beneath  3-our  trampling  feet,  God's  gift  to  us 
Of  sovrant3"  b3'  reason  and  IVeewill; 
Sinning  against  the  province  of  the  Soul 
To  rule  the  soulless.     Reverence  her  estate. 
And  pass  out  from  her  presence  witii  no  words 

Eve.  0  dearest  Heart,  have  patience  with  m3-  lieart 
O  Spirits,  have  patience,  'stead  of  reverence. 
And  let  me  speak,  for,  not  being  innocent, 
^t  little  doth  become  me  to  be  proud, 
And  I  am  prescient  b3'  the  veiy  hope 
And  promise  set  upon  me,  that  henceforth 
Onl3^  1113'  gentleness  shall  make  me  great, 
_Vl3  humbleness  exalt  me.     Awful  Spirits, 
Be  witness  that  I  stand  in  your  reproof 
But  one  sun's  length  otf  from  m3'  happiness — • 
Happ3-,  as  I  have  said,  to  look  around, 
Clear  to  look  up  ! — And  now!     I  need  not  speak — 


A     D  R  A  M  A     0  F      E  X  I  L  E .  5» 

5re  see  me  what  I  am  ;  j-e  scorn  me  so, 
Because  ye  see  me  what  I  have  made  m3^self 
From  God's  best  making!     Ahis — peace  forg-one, 
liOve  wronged,  and  virtue  forleit,  and  tears  wcjpt 
Upon  all,  vainl}^     Alas,  me!  alas, 
Who  have  undone  mjself  from  all  that  best, 
Fairest  and  sweetest,  to  this  wretchedest, 
Saddest  and  most  defiled — cast  out,  cast  down — 
What  word  metes  absolute  loss  ?  let  absolute  loss 
Suffice  you  for  revenge.     For  /,  who  lived 
Beneath  the  wings  of  angels  yesterday, 
Wander  to-day  beneath  tlie  roofless  w^orld ! 
/,  reigning  the  earth's  empress  yesterday, 
Put  off  from  me,  to-day,  3'Our  hate  with  praj'ers ! 
7,  yesterday,  who  answered  the  Lord  God, 
Composed  and  glad  as  singing  birds  the  sun, 
Might  shriek  now  from  our  dismal  desert,  "  God," 
And  hear  him  make  reply,  "  What  is  thy  need. 
Thou  whom  I  cursed  to-day?" 

Adam.  Eve ! 

£Jve.  I,  at  last, 

Who  yesterday  was  helpmate  and  delight 
Unto  mine  Adam,  am  to-day  the  grief 
And  curse-mete  for  him  !     And,  so,  pity  us. 
Ye  gentle  Spirits,  and  pardon  him  and  me. 
And  let  some  tender  peace,  made  of  our  pain. 
Grow  up  betwixt  us,  as  a  tree  might  grow. 
With  boughs  on  both  sides.     In  the  shade  of  whicli, 
When  presently  ye  shall  behold  us  dead — 
For  the  poor  sake  of  our  humility, 
Breathe  out  your  pardon  on  our  breathless  lips, 
And  drop  your  twilight  dews  against  our  brows. 
And  stroking  with  mild  airs  our  harmless  hands 
Left  empty  of  all  fruit,  perceive  your  love 
Distilling  through  yoiir  pity  over  us, 
And  suffer  it,  self-reconciled,  to  pass. 

Lucifer  rises  in  the  circle. 

Luc.  Who  talks  here  of  a  complement  of  grief? 
Of  expiation  wrought  by  loss  and  fall? 
Of  hate  subduable  to  pity  ?     Eve  ? 
Take  counsel  from  thy  counsellor  the  snake, 
And  boast  no  more  in  grief,  nor  hope  from  pain. 
My  docile  Eve!     I  teach  j'ou  to  despond. 
Who  taught  you  r.isobedience.     Look  around  ; — 
Earth-spirits  and  phantasms  hear  3'ou  talk  unmoved. 


58  A     DR  AM  A     OF     E  X  ILE. 

As  if  3'e  were  red-clay  again  and  tallved  ! 
Wiiat  are  your  words  to  tliem  ?  your  grief  to  them? 
Your  deaths,  indeed,  to  them  ?     Did  the  hand  pause 
For  their  salve,  in  the  plucking  of  the  fruit, 
That  they  should  pause  for  you,  in  hating  you? 
Or  will  your  grief  or  death,  as  did  your  sin, 
13ring  change  upon  their  final  doom?     Behold, 
Your  grief  is  but  your  sin  in  the  rebound, 
And  cannot  expiate  for  it. 

Adam.  That  is  true. 

Luc.  Ay,  that  is  true.     The  clay-king  testifies 
To  the  snake's  counsel — hear  him  ! — very  true. 

Earth  Spiriti^.  I  wail,  I  wail ! 

Luc.  And  certes,  lliat  is  true. 

Ye  wail,3'e  all  wail.     Peradventure  I 
Could  wail  among  you.     0  thou  universe. 
That  boldest  sin  and  woe — more  room  for  wail ! 

Distant  starry  voice.    Ah,  ah,  lleosphoros !   Heos- 
phoros ! 

Adam.  Mark  Lucifer.     He  changes  awfully. 

Eve.  It  seems  as  if  he  looked  from  grief  to  God 
And  could  not  see  Him  ! — wretched  Lucifer  ! 

Adam.  How  he  stands — yet  au  angel ! 

Earth  Sjnrits.  We  all  wail ! 

Luc.   (after  a  pause.)    Dost  thou  remember,  Adam, 
when  the  curse 
Took  us  in  Eden  ?     On  a  mountain-peak 
Half-sheathed  in  primal  woods  and  glittering 
In  spasms  of  awful  sunshine  at  that  hour, 
A  lion  couched,  part  raised  upon  his  paws, 
With  his  calm,  massive  face  turned  full  on  thine, 
And  his  mane  listening.     When  the  ended  curse 
Left  silence  in  the  world — right  suddenly 
He  sprang  up  rampant  and  stood  straight  and  stiff", 
As  if  the  new  reality  of  death 

Were  dashed  against  his  eyes,  and  roared  so  fierce, 
(Such  thick  carnivorous  passion  in  his  throat 
Tearing  a  passage  through  the  wrath  and  fear) 
And  roared  so  wild,  and  smote  from  all  the  hills 
Such  fast,  keen  echoes  crumbling  down  the  vales 
Precipitatel}- — that  the  forest  beasts. 
One  after  one,  did  mutter  a  response 
Of  savage  and  of  sorrowful  complaint 
Which  trailed  along  the  gorges.     Then,  at  once. 
He  fell  back,  and  rolled  crashing  from  the  height 
Into  the  dusk  of  pines. 


A      1)  R  A  M  A      O  F      E  X  I  L  E  .  59 

Adam.  It  uiight  have  been 

1  heard  the  curse  alone. 

Earth  Spi7'Us.  I  wail,  I  wail  ! 

Luc.  That  lion  is  the  type  of  what  I  am. 
And  as  he  fixed  thee  with  his  full-taeed  liato, 
And  roared  O  Adam,  comprehending  doom, 
So,  gazing  on  tlie  face  of  the  Unseen, 
I  cry  out  here  between  the  Heavens  and  Earth 
My  conscience  of  this  sin,  this  woe, this  wrath, 
Which  damn  me  to  this  depth. 

Earth  Spirits.  I  wail,  I  wail ! 

Eve.  I  wail— 0  God  ! 

Luc.  I  scorn  you  that  ye  wail, 

Who  use  your  pretty  griefs  for  pedestals 
To  stand  on,  beckoning  pity  from  without, 
And  deal  in  pathos  of  antithesis 
Of  what  ye  ico-e  forsooth,  and  what  3'e  are  ; — 
I  scorn  you  like  an  angel  !     Yet,  one  cry 
I,  too,  would  drive  up  like  a  column  erect. 
Marble  to  marble,  from  m^^  heart  to  Heaven, 
A  monument  of  anguish  to  transpierce 
And  overtop  your  vapory  complaints 
Expressed  from  feeble  avocs. 

Earth  Spirits.  I  wail,  I  wail ! 

Luc.  For,  O  ye  Heavens,  ye  are  my  witnesses, 
That  I,  struck  out  from  nature  in  a  blot. 
The  outcast  and  the  mildew  of  things  good, 
Tlie  leper  of  angels,  the  excepted  dust 
Under  the  common  rain  of  dailj'  gifts — 
1  the  snake,  1  the  tempter,  1  the  cursed — 
To  whom  the  highest  and  the  lowest  alike 
Say,  Go  from  us — we  have  no  need  of  thee — • 
Was  made  b}'-  God  like  others.     Good  and  fair, 
He  did  create  me  ! — ask  Him,  if  not  fair  ! 
Ask,  if  I  cauglit  not  fair  and  silvery 
His  blessing  for  chief  angels  on  mj'  head 
Until  it  grew  there,  a  crown  crj^stallised ! 
Ask,  if  He  never  called  me  by  my  name, 
Lucifer — kindl}'^  said  as  "  Gabriel  " — 
Lucifer — soft  as  "Michael!"  while  serene 
1,  standing  in  the  glory  of  the  lamps, 
Answered  "my  Father,"  innocent  of  shame 
A_nd  of  the  sense  of  thunder.     Ha  !  ye  think. 
White  angels  in  your  niches — I  repent. 
And  Avould  tread  down  my  own  otfences  back 
To  service  at  the  footstool  ?  thafs  read  wrong! 


r.O  A      D  R  A  M  A      O  P      E  X  I  L  E . 

f  cry  as  the  beast  did,  that  I  may  cry — 
Expansive,  not  appealing!     Fallen  so  deep, 
Against  the  sides  of  this  prodigious  pit, 
I  cry — cry — dashing  out  the  hands  of  wail 
On  each  side,  to  meet  anguish  everywhere, 
And  to  attest  it  in  the  ecstasy 
And  exaltation  of  a  woe  sustained 
Because  pi'ovoked  and  chosen. 

Pass  along 
Your  wilderness,  vain  mortals  !     Pun}-  griefs 
In  transitory  shapes,  be  henceforth  dwarfed 
To  your  own  conscience,  by  the  dread  extremes 
Of  what  I  am  and  have  been.     If  ye  have  fallen, 
It  is  but  a  step's  fall — the  whole  ground  beneath 
Strewn  W00II3'  soft  with  promise!  if  ye  have  sinned, 
Your  pra3'ers  tread  high  as  angels  !  if  3e  have  grieve*!, 
Ye  are  too  mortal  to  be  pitiable, 
The  power  to  die  dispro-ves  the  right  to  grieve. 
Go  to !  ye  call  this  ruin  ?     I  half-scorn 
The  ill  I  did  3rou !     Were  3'e  wronged  by  me, 
Hated  and  tempted  and  undone  of  me — 
Still,  what's  3'our  hurt  to  mine  of  doing  hurt, 
Of  hating,  tempting,  and  so  ruining  ? 
This  sword's  hilt  is  the  sharpest,  and  cuts  through 
The  hand  that  wields  it. 

Go — I  curse  3'ou  all. 
Hate  one  another — feebl3' — as  3'e  can  ; 
I  would  not  certes  cut  you  short  in  hate, 
Far  be  it  from  me !  hate  on  as  3'e  can ! 
I  breathe  into  your  faces,  spirits  of  earth, 
As  wintr3'  blasts  ma3^  breathe  on  wintr3^  leaves 
And  lifting  uj)  their  brownness  show  beneath 
The  branches  bare. — Beseech  you,  spirits,  give 
To  Eve  who  beggarl3'-  entreats  3^our  love 
For  her  and  Adam  when  ihay  shall  be  dead. 
An  answer  rather  fitting  to  the  sin 
Than  to  the  sorrow — as  the  Heavens,  I  trow. 
For  justice'  sake  gave  theirs. 

I  curse  you  both, 
Adam  and  Eve !     Say  grace  as  after  meat, 
After  my  curses.     May  your  tears  fall  hot 
On  all  tlie  hissing  scorns  o'  the  creatures  here — - 
And  yet  rejoice.     Increase  and  multipl3'. 
Ye  in  3'our  genei'ations,  in  all  plagues, 
Corruptions,  melancholies,  poverties, 
And  hideous  forms  of  life  and  fears  of  deaths 


A      I)  11  A  M  A      O  F      E  X  I  L  E  .  6  . 

Till)  thoviglit  of  (lecith  being  alway  eminent 

Innnovalile  and  dreadful  in  your  life, 

And  deafly  and  dumbly  insignificant 

Of  any  hope  beyond — as  death  itself, 

^Vhi(■hcver  of  you  lietli  dead  the  first, 

vShall  seem  to  the  survivor — 3'et  rejoice! 

My  curse  catch  at  yon  strongly,  bod}'  and  soul, 

And  JIe  lind  no  redemption — iior  the  wing 

Of  seraph  move  your  way  ;  and  yet  rejoice! 

Rejoice — because  ye  have  not,  set  in  you. 

This  hate  which  sliall  pursue  you — this  fire-hate 

Which  glares  without,  because  it  burns  within — 

Which  kills  from  ashes — this  potential  hate, 

Wherein  I,  angel,  in  antagonism 

To  God  and  his  reflex  beatitudes. 

Moan  ever  in  the  central  universe 

^Vith  the  great  woe  of  striving  against  Love — 

And  gasp  for  space  amid  tlie  Inlinite, 

And  toss  for  rest  amid  the  Desertness, 

Self-orphaned  hy  my  Avill,  and  self-elect 

To  kingship  of  resistant  agony 

Toward  the  Good  round  me — hating  good  and  love. 

And  willing  to  hate  good  and  to  hate  love, 

And  willing  to  will  on  so  evermore, 

Scorning  the  past  and  damning  the  To  come — 

Go  and  rejoice!  I  curse  you.  [Luci-fer  vame^i^es. 

Earth  Sjyirits. 

And  we  scorn  you  !  there's  no  pardon 

Which  can  lean  to  you  aright. 
When  3'onr  bodies  take  the  guerdon 
Of  the  death-curse  in  our  sight. 
Then  the  bee  that  hummeth  lowest  shall  transcend  you  : 
Then  ye  shall  not  move  an  eyelid 

Though  the  stars  look  down  your  eyes  ; 
And  the  earth  which  ye  defiled 
Shall  expose  you  to  the  skies — 
"  Lo  !  these  kings  of  ours,  who  sought  to  comprehend 
you.'' 

Fii^st  Spirit. 

And  the  elements  shall  boldly 

All  your  dust  to  dust  constrain. 
TJnresistedly  and  coldly 

1  will  smite  you  with  my  rain. 
From  the  slowest  of  my  frosts  is  no  receding. 

6 


62  A     DRAMA      OF      EXILE. 

Second  Spirit. 

And  my  little  worm  appointed 

To  assume  a  royal  part, 
He  sliall  reign,  crowned  and  anointed, 
O'er  the  noble  human  heart. 
3ive  him  counsel  against  losing  of  that  Eden  I 
Adam.  Do  ye  scorn  us  ?     Back  your  scorn, 
Towards  your  faces  gre}'  and  lorn, 
As  the  wind  drives  back  the  rain. 
Thus  I  drive  with  passion-strife, 
I  who  stand  beneath  God's  sun, 
Made  like  God,  and,  though  undone, 
Not  unmade  for  love  and  life. 
Lo  I  ye  utter  threats  in  vain. 
By  ni}'^  free  will  that  chose  sin. 
By  niiue  agony  within 
Round  the  passajxe  of  the  fire. 
By  the  pinings  which  disclose 
That  my  native  soul  is  higher 
Than  what  it  chose, 
We  are  yet  too  high,  O  Spirits,  for  3'our  disdain. 
Eve.  Nay,  beloved  !     If  these  be  low, 

We  confront  them  from  no  height. 
We  have  stooped  down  to  their  level 
B}'  infecting  them  with  evil. 
And, their  scorn  that  meets  our  blow 

Scathes  aright. 
Amen.     Let  it  be  so. 

Earth  Spirits. 

We  shall  triumph — triumph  greatly 

When  3'e  lie  beneath  the  sward. 
There,  our  lily  shall  grow  stately 
Though  ye  answer  not  a  word, 
And  her  fragrance  shall  be  scornful  of  your  silence. 
While  your  throne  ascending  calmly 

We,  in  heirdom  of  ^-our  soul. 
Flash  the  river,  lift  the  palm-tree, 
The  dilated  ocean  roll 
By  the  thoughts  that  throbbed  within  you,  round  the 
islands. 

Alp  and  torrent  shall  inherit 

Your  significance  of  will, 
And  the  grandeur  of  ^-our  spirit 

Shall  our  broad  savannahs  fill ; 
In  our  winds,  your  exultations  shall  be  springing. 


A      DRAM  A      OF      K  X  I  L  E  .  63 

Even  3'onr  parlance  which  inveigles, 

By  our  nideness  shall  be  won. 
Hearts  poetic  in  our  eagles, 

Shall  beat  up  against  the  sun, 
And  strike  downward  in  articulate  clear  singing 

Your  bold  speeches,  our  Behemoth 

With  his  thunderous  jaw  shall  wield. 
Your  high  fiincies,  shall  our  Mammoth 
Breathe  sublimely  up  the  shield 
Of  St.  Michael  at  God's  throne,  who  waits  to  speed  him  I 
Till  the  heaven's  smooth-grooved  thunder 

Spinning  back,  shall  leave  them  clear, 
And  the  angels  smiling  wonder 

With  dropt  looks  from  sphere  to  sphere. 
Shall  cry,  "  Ho,  ye  heirs  of  Adam  !  3'e  exceed  him  !" 
Adam.  Boot  out  thine  eyes,  sweet,  from  the  dreary 
ground. 
Ticloved,  we  may  be  overcome  by  God, 
Hut  not  b}'  these. 
Ece.  By  God,  perhaps,  in  these! 

Adam.  I  think,  not  so.  Had  God  foredoomed  desp-i'r, 
He  had  not  spoken  hope.     He  may  destroy 
Certes,  but  not  deceive. 

Eve.  Behold  this  rose  ! 

I  plucked  it  in  our  bower  of  Paradise 
This  morning  as  I  went  forth,  and  my  heart 
Has  beat  agtunst  its  petals  all  the  day. 
I  thought  it  would  be  alwaj-s  red  and  full 
As  when  1  plucked  it — Is  it  ? — ye  may  see  I 
I  cast  it  down  to  you  that  ye  ma}^  see, 
All  of  you  ! — count  the  petals  lost  of  it. 
And  note  the  colors  fainted  !  ye  may  see  ! 
And  I  am  as  it  is,  who  yesterday 
Grew  in  the  same  place.     O  yQ  spirits  of  earth, 
T  almost,  from  my  miserable  heart, 
Could  here  upbraid  you  for  your  cruel  heart. 
Which  will  not  let  me,  down  the  slope  of  death, 
Draw  any  of  30ur  pity  after  me, 
Or  lie  still  in  the  quiet  of  your  looks, 
As  my  flower,  there,  in  mine. 

f.-l  bleak  niiid,  quickened  ivith  indistinct  hitman  voices,  spivs  around 
the  eart'i-zodiucj  jilling  the  circle  uith  its  presence  ;  and  then  wtnl- 
iiiff  <iff  into  the  e'i-'<t,  canies  the  rose  aicaytvith  it.  ^vk  falls  upon 
her  face.     Adam  stands  erect. 

Adam.  So,  verily, 

The  last  departs 


04  A     DRAMA      OF      EXILE. 

Eve.  So  memory  follows  Hope, 

And  Life  both.     Love  said  to  me,  "  Do  not  die,'' 
And  I  replied,  "0  LoA'e,  I  will  not  die. 
I  exiled  and  I  will  not  orphan  Love." 
But  now  it  is  no  choice  of  mine  to  die — 
My  heart  throbs  from  me. 

Adam.  Call  it  straightway  back. 

Death's  consummation  crowns  completed  life. 
Or  comes  too  early.     Hope  being  set  on  thee 
For  others,  if  for  others  then  for  thee — 
For  thee  and  me. 

\_The  wind  revolves  from  the  east,  and  round  ar/ain  to  the  east,  per- 
fumed by  the  Eden  rose,  and  full  of  voices,  which  sweep  out  into 
articulation  as  they  pass. 

Let  thy  soul  shake  its  leaves 
To  feel  the  m^'stic  wind — hark  ! 

Eve.  I  hear  life. 

Infant  voices  passing  in  the  wind. 
O  we  live,  0  we  live — 
And  this  life  that  we  receive 
Is  a  warm  thing  and  a  new, 
Which  we  softlj'  bud  into 
From  the  heart  and  from  the  brain — 
Something  strange  that  overmuch  is 

Of  the  sound  and  of  the  sight. 
Flowing  round  in  trickling  touches, 

With  a  sorrow  and  delight — 
Yet  is  it  all  in  vain  ? 

Kock  us  softlj'', 
Lest  it  be  all  in  vain. 

Youthful  voices  passing. 
0  we  live,  0  we  Ua'c — 
And  this  life  that  we  achieve 
Is  a  loud  thing  antl  a  hold, 
Which  with  pulses  manifold 
Strikes  the  heart  out  full  and  fain — 
Active  doer,  noble  liver, 

Strong  to  struggle,  sure  to  conquer, 
Though  the  vessel's  prow  will  quiver 

At  the  lifting  of  the  anchor: 
Yet  do  we  strive  in  vain  ? 

Infant  voices  passing. 

Keck  us  softly, 
Lest  it  be  all  in  vain. 


A     D  R  i*  :.I  A     0  F     E  X  I  L  E .  ^R 

2*oet  voices  passing. 

0  we  live,  O  we  live — 
And  this  life  thab  we  conceive 
Is  a  clear  thing  and  a  fair, 
Which  we  set  in  crystal  air 
That  its  beant}^  may  be  plain  ! 
With  a  breathing  and  a  flooding 

Of  the  heaven-life  on  the  whole, 
While  we  hear  the  forests  budding 

To  the  music  of  the  soul — 
Yet  is  it  tuned  in  vain  ? 
Infant  voices  passing. 

Kock  us  softly, 
Lest  it  be  all  in  vain. 
.Philosophic  voices  passing. 
0  we  live,  O  we  live — 
And  this  life  that  we  perceive, 
Is  n  great  thing  and  a  grave, 
Which  for  others'  use  we  have. 
Duty-laden  to  remain. 
We  are  helpers,  fellow-creatures,  , 
Of  the  right  against  the  wrong, 
We  are  earnest-hearted  teachers 

Of  the  truth  which  maketh  strong- 
Yet  do  we  teach  in  vain  ? 
Infant  voices  passing. 

Rock  us  softly, 
Lest  it  be  all  in  vain. 
Revel  voices  passing. 

0  we  live,  0  we  live — 
And  this  life  that  we  reprieve, 
Is  a  low  thing  and  a  light. 
Which  is  jested  out  of  sight, 
And  made  worthy  of  disdain ! 
Strike  with  bold  electric  laughter 

The  high  tops  of  things  divine — 
Turn  thy  head,  my  brother,  after. 

Lest  thy  tears  fall  in  my  -wine  ; — 
For  is  all  lauglied  in  vain  ? 
Infant  voices  passing. 

Rock  us  softly. 
Lest  it  be  all  in  vain. 
Eve.  1  hear  a  sound  of  life — of  life  like  ours — 
Of  laughter  and  of  wailing,  of  grave  speech. 
Of  little  plaintive  voices  innocent, 
Of  life  in  separate  com-s-^cs  flowing  out 
6*  E 


bb  A      DRAMA      OF     EXILE. 

Like  our  four  rivers  to  some  outward  main. 
I  bear  life — life  ! 

Adam.  And,  so,    tin'  cheeks  have  snatched 

Scarlet  to  paleness,  and  thine  eyes  drink  fast 
Of  glory  from  full  cups,  and  thy  moist  lips 
Seem  trembling,  both  of  them,  with  earnest  doubts 
Whether  to  utter  words  or  onl}^  smile. 

Eve.  Shall  I  be  mother  of  the  coming  life  ? 
Hear  the  steep  generations,  how  the}"-  fall 
Adown  the  visionar}'  stairs  of  Time 
Like  supernatural  thunders — far,  3'et  near — 
Sowing  their  fiery  echoes  through  the  hills. 
Am  I  a  cloud  to  these — mother  to  these  ? 

JEarth  Spirits.  And  bringer  of  the  curse  upon  all 
these.  [Eve  sinks  doicn  again. 

Poet  voices  passing. 

0  we  live,  0  we  live — 

And  this  life  that  we  conceive, 

Is  a  noble  thing  and  high. 

Which  we  climb  up  loftily 

To  view  God  without  a  stain  ;    ■ 

Till,  recoiling  where  the  shade  is, 

We  retread  our  steps  again, 
And  descend  the  gloomy  Hades 
To  resume  man's  mortal  pain. 
Shall  it  be  climbed  in  vain  ? 

Infant  voices  passing. 

llock  us  softly, 
Lest  it  be  all  in  vain. 

Love  voices  p>assing. 

O  we  live,  0  we  live — 

And  this  life  we  would  retrieve, 

Is  a  faithful  thing  apart, 

Which  we  love  in,  heart  to  heart, 

Until  one  heart  fitteth  twain. 

"  Wilt  thou  be  one  with  me  ?" 

"  I  will  be  one  with  thee." 

"  Ha,  ha  !  we  love  and  live  !" 

Alas!  3'e  love  and  die. 

Shriek — who  shall  reply — 

For  is  it  not  loved  in  vain  ? 

infant  voices  2:>assi)ig. 

Rock  us  softly. 
Though  it  be  all  in  vain. 


A     DRAMA      OF      EXILE.  67 

Aged  voices  passing. 

0  we  live,  0  we  live — 

And  this  life  we  would  survive. 
Is  a  glooni}'  thing  and  brief, 
Which,  consummated  in  grief, 
Leaveth  ashes  lor  all  gain. 
Is  it  not  all  in  vain  ? 
Infant  voices  2Mssing. 

Rock  us  softly, 
Though  it  be  all  in  vain.  [  Voices  die  away. 

Earth  Spirits.  And  bringer  of  the  curse  upon  all 

these. 
Eve.  The  voices  of  foreshown  Humanit}- 
Die  off; — so  let  me  die. 

Adam.  So  let  us  die. 

When  God's  will  soundeth  the  right  hour  of  death 
Earth  Spirits.  And   bringer  of  the  curse   upon  al! 

these. 
Eve.  0  spirits  !  b3^  the  gentleness  ye  use 
In  winds  at  night,  and  floating  clouds  at  noon. 
In  gliding  waters  under  lilj'-leaves, 
In  chirp  of  crickets,  and  the  settling  hush 
A  bird  makes  in  her  nest  with  feet  and  wings — 
FuHil  your  natures  now  ! 
Earth  Sjyirtts. 

Agreed,  allowed  ! 
We  gather  out  our  natures  like  a  cloud, 
And  thus  fulfil  their  lightnings  !     Thus,  and  thus! 
Harken,  0  harken  to  us  ! 
First  Spirit. 
As  the  storm-wind  blows  bleakly  from  the  norland. 
As  the  snow-wind  beats  blindly  on  the  moorland. 
As  the  simoom  drives  hot  across  the  desert, 
As  the  thunder  roars  deep  in  the  Unmeasured, 
As. the  torrent  tears  the  ocean-world  to  atoms. 
As  the  whirlpool  grinds  it  fathoms  below  fathoms— 
Thus — and  thus  ! 
Second  Spirit. 
As  the  yellow  toad,  that  spits  its  poison  chilly, 
As  the  tiger  in  the  jungle  crouching  stilly, 
As  the  wild  boar,  with  ragged  tusks  of  anger. 
As  the  wolf-dog,  with  teeth  of  glittering  clangor, 
As  the  vultures,  that  scream  against  the  thunder, 
As  the  owlets,  that  sit  and  moan  asunder, 
Thus — and  thus  I 
Eve.  Adam!  God  1 


'^•'?  A      DRAMA      OF      EXILE. 

Adam.  ^  Cruel,  unrelenting  spirits ! 

B3'  the  power  in  me  of  the  sovran  soul 
Whose  thoughts  keep  pace  yet  with  the  angel's  march 
I  charge  you  into  silence— trample  you 
Down  to  obedience. — I  am  king  of  you  ! 
Earth  Spirits. 

Ha,  ha  !  thou  art  king  I 

With  a  sin  for  a  crown, 

And  a  soul  undone  ! 

Thou,  the  antagonized, 

Tortured  and  agonized, 

Held  in  the  ring 

Of  the  zodiac!  '' 

Now,  king,  beware ! 

We  are  many  and  strong 

AVhom  thou  standest  among 

And  we  press  on  the  air. 
And  we  stifle  thee  back, 
And  we  multiply  where 
Thou  wouldst  trample  us  down 
From  rights  of  our  own 
To  an  utter  wrong — 
And,  from  under  the  l^eet  of  thy  scorn, 
0  forlorn, 
We  shall  spring  up  like  corn. 
And  our  stubble  be  strong. 
Adam.  God,  there  is  power  in  Thee !  I  make  appeal 
Unto  thy  kingship. 

^^'^-  There  is  pity  in  Thee, 

O  sinned  against,  great  God !— My  seed,  my  seed. 
There  is  hope  set  on  Thee— I  cry  to  thee. 
Thou  mystic  seed  that  shalt  be !— leave  us  not 
In  agony  lieyond  what  we  can  bear, 
Fallen  in  debasement  below  thunder-mark, 
A  mark  for  scorning — taunted  and  perplext 
By  all  these  creatures  we  ruled  j'esterda}'. 
Whom  thou,  Lord,  rulest  alA^^'aj-.     0  my  seed. 
Through  the  tempestuous  years  that  rain  so  tl.ick 
Betwixt  my  ghostly  vision  and  thy  face. 
Let  me  have  token  !  for  my  soul  is  bruised 
Before  the  serpent's  head  is. 

[A  vinon  of  Chhist  appears  in  Ih.e  mid.U  of  the  zodiac,  xvldch  pales 
before  the  heavenly  light.  The  Earth  Spin.'x  yruw  greyer  and 
fainter. 

Christ.  ^  I  am  here  ! 

Adam.  This  is  God  !    Curse  us  not,  God,  any  more 


A      DRAMA      OF      EXILE.  69 

Eve.  But  gazino;  so — so — with  omnific  eyes, 
VAft  my  sonl  upward  till  it  touch  thy  feet! 
Or  lilt  it  onl>- — not  to  seem  too  proud — 
To  the  low  height  of  some  good  angel's  feet, 
For  such  to  tread  on  when  he  walketh  straight 
And  thy  lips  praise  him. 

Christ.  Spirits  of  the  earth, 

I  meet  you  with  rebuke  for  the  reproach 
And  cruel  and  unmitigated  blame 
Ye  cast  upon  your  masters.     True,  thc}^  have  sinned 
And  true  their  sin  is  reckoned  into  loss 
For  you  the  sinless.     Yet  your  innocence, 
Which  of  you  praises?  since  God  made  your  acts 
Inherent  in  your  lives,  and  bound  your  hands 
With  instincts  and  imperious  sanctities 
From  self-defacement?     Which  of  you  disdains 
These  sinners  who  in  falling  proved  their  height 
Above  you  by  their  liberty  to  fall  ? 
And  which  of  you  complains  of  loss  by  them, 
For  whose  delight  and  use  ye  have  j'our  life 
And  honor  in  creation  ?     Ponder  it ! 
This  regent  and  sublime  Humanity 
Though  fallen,  exceeds  you!  this  shall  film  3'our  sun, 
Shall  hunt  your  lightning  to  its  lair  of  cloud, 
Turn  back  your  rivers,  footpath  all  your  seas, 
Lay  flat  your  forests,  master  with  a  look 
Your  lion  at  his  fasting,  and  fetch  down 
Your  eagle  flying.     Na}^  without  this  law 
Of  mandom,  ye  w^ould  perish — beast  b}^  beast 
Devouring — tree  by  tree,  with  strangling  roots 
And  trunks  set  tuskwise.     Ye  would  gaze  on  God 
With  imperceptive  blankness  up  the  stars, 
And  mutter,  "  Why,  God,  hast  thou  made  us  thus  ?" 
And  pining  to  a  sallow  idiocy 
Stagger  up  blindly  against  the  ends  of  life. 
Then  stagnate  into  rottenness  and  drop 
Heavily — poor,  dead  matter — piecemeal  down 
The  abysmal  spaces — like  a  little  stone 
Let  fall  to  chaos.     Therefore  over  you 
Receive  man's  sceptre — therefore  be  content 
To  minister  with  voluntar3'  grace 
And  melancholy  pardon,  ever}'  rite 
And  function  in  you,  to  the  human  hand. 
Be  3'e  to  man  as  angels  are  to  God, 
Servants  in  pleasure,  singers  of  delight, 
Suogesters  to  his  soul  of  higher  things 


70  A      DRAMA     OF      EXILE.' 

Thau  any  of  _yonr  highest.     So  at  last, 

He  shall  look  round  on  you  with  lids  too  straight 

To  hold  tlie  grateful  tears,  and  thank  you  welt, 

And  bless  you  when  he  prays  his  secret  prayers, 

And  praise  you  when  he  sings  his  open  songs 

For  the  clear  song-note  he  has  learnt  in  you 

Of  purifying  sweetness,  and  extend 

Across  your  head  his  golden  fantasies 

Which  glorify  you  into  soul  from  sense  ! 

Go,  serve  him. for  such  price.     That  not  in  vain 

Nor  yet  ignobly  ye  shall  serve,  I  place 

My  word  here  for  an  oath,  mine  oath  for  act 

To  be  hereafter.      In  the  name  of  which 

Perfect  redemption  and  perpetual  grace, 

I  bless  you  through  the  hope  and  through  the  peace 

Which  are  mine — to  the  Love,  which  is  myself 

Eve.  Speak  on  still,  Christ.  Albeit  thou  bless  me  not 
In  set  words,  I  am  blessed  in  barkening  thee — 
Speak,  Christ. 

Christ.   Speak,  Adam.     Bless  the  woman,  man — 
It  is  thine  office. 

Adam.  Mother  of  the  world. 

Take  heart  before  this  Presence.      Lo,  my  voice, 
Which,  naming  erst  the  creatures,  did  express 
(God  breathing  tlirough  my  breath)  the  attributes 
And  instincts  of  each  creature  in  its  name. 
Floats  to  the  same  afflatus — floats  and  lieaves 
LilvC  a  water-weed  that  opens  to  a  wave, 
A  full-leaved  prophecy'  aiiecting  thee. 
Out  fairly  and  wide.     Henceforward,  rise,  aspire 
To  all  the  calms  and  magnanimities, 
The  lofty  uses  and  the  noble  ends. 
The  sanctified  devotion  and  full  work, 
To  which  thou  art  elect  for  evermore, 
First  woman,  wife,  and  mother. 

Uve.  And  first  in  sin. 

Adam.     And  also  the  sole  bearer  of  the  Seed 
Whereby  sin  dieth  !  raise  the  majesties 
Of  thy  disconsolate  brows,  O  well-beloved, 
And  front  with  level  ej'elids  the  To  come. 
And  all  the  dark  o'  the  world.     Rise,  woman,  rise 
To  thy  peculiar  and  best  altitudes 
Of  doing  good  and  of  enduring  ill. 
Of  comforting  for  ill,  and  teaching  good. 
And  reconciling  all  that  ill  and  good 
Unto  the  patience  of  a  constant  hope — 


J 


A      DRAMA      OF     EXILE.  71 

Rise  ;\'ith  thy  daughters  !     If  sin  came  by  thee, 

And  by  sin,  deatli — the  ransom-righteousness, 

The  heavenly  life  and  compensative* rest 

Shall  come  by  means  of  thee.     If  woe  by  thee 

Had  issue  to  the  world,  thou  shalt  go  forth 

An  angel  of  the  woe  thou  didst  achieve, 

Found  acceptable  to  the  world  instead 

Of  others  of  that  name,  of  whose  bright  steps 

Thy  deed  stripped  bare  the  hills.     Be  satisfied  ; 

Something  thou  hnst  to  bear  through  womanhood, 

Peculiar  suffering  answering  to  the  sin — 

Some  pang  paid  down  for  each  new  human  life, 

Some  weariness  in  guarding  such  a  life, 

Some  coldness  from  the  guarded,  some  mistrust 

From  those   thou    hast  too    well  served,  from  thoae 

beloved 
Too  loyally  some  treason  ;  feebleness 
Within  thy  heart,  and  cruelty  without, 
And  pressures  of  an  alien  tyranny 
With  its  dynastic  reasons  of  larger  bones 
And  stronger  sinews.     But,  go  to  !  thy  love 
Shall  chant  itself  its  own  beatitudes 
After  its  own  life-working.     A  child's  kiss 
Set  on  th)''  sighing  lips,  shall  make  thee  glad  ; 
A  poor  man  served  by  thee,  shall  make  thee  rich  ; 
A  sick  man  helped  by  thee,  shall  make  thee  strong: 
Thou  shalt  be  served  thyself  b}'  every  sense 
Of  service  which  thou  renderest.     Such  a  crown 
I  set  upon  thy  head — Christ  witnessing 
With  looks  of  prompting  love — to  keep  thee  clear 
Of  all  reproach  against  the  sin  foregone, 
From  all  the  generations  which  succeed. 
Thy  hand  which  plucked  the  apple,  I  clasp  close. 
Thy  lips  which  spake  wrong  counsel,  I  kiss  close, 
I  bless  thee  in  the  name  of  Paradise 
And  by  the  memory  of  Edenic  joj's 
Forfeit  and  lost — by  that  last  cypress  tree 
Green  at  the  gate,  which  thrilled  as  we  came  out, 
And  by  the  blessed  nightingale  which  threw 
Its  melanchol}'  music  after  us — 
And  by  the  flowers,  whose  spirits  full  of  smells 
Did  follow  softly,  plucking  us  behind. 
Back  to  the  gradual  banks  and  vernal  bowers 
And  four-fold  river  courses. — By  all  these, 
I  bless  thee  to  the  contraries  of  these, 
1  bless  thee  to  the  desert  and  the  thorns, 


72  A     DRAMA      OF      EXILB. 

To  the  elemental  change  and  turbulence, 
And  to  the  roar  of  the  estranged  beasts, 
And  to  the  solemn  dignities  ot  grief — 
To  each  one  of  these  ends — and  to  tlieir  end 
Of  Death  and  the  hereafter  ! 

Eve.  I  accept 

For  me  and  for  my  daughters  this  high  part 
Which  lowly  shall  be  counted.     Noble  work 
Shall  hold  me  in  the  place  of  garden-rest, 
And  in  the  place  of  Eden's  lost  delight 
Worthy  endurance  of  permitted  pain  ; 
While  on  m}-  longest  patience  there  shall  wait 
Death's  speechless  angel,  smiling  in  the  east. 
Whence  cometh  the  cold 'wind.     I  bow  myself 
Humbly  henceforward  on  the  ill  I  did, 
That  humbleness  ma}'  keep  it  in  the  shade. 
Shall  it  be  so  ?  shall  1  smile,  saying  so  ? 

0  seed  !  O  King  !  0  God,  wdio  i^halt  be  seed — 
W^hat  shall  I  say  ?     As  Eden's  fountains  swelled 
Brighth^  betwixt  their  banks,  so  swells  my  soul 
Betwixt  thy  love  and  power  ! 

And,  sweetest  thoughts 
Of  foregone  Eden  !  now,  for  the  first  time 
Since  God  said  "  Adam,"  walking  through  the  trees, 

1  dare  to  pluck  you  as  I  plucked  erewhile 
The  lily  or  pink,  the  rose  or  heliotrope. 

So  pluck  I  you — so  largel}'; — with  both  hands, 
And  throw  you  forward  on  the  outer  earth 
Wherein  we  are  cast  out,  to  sweeten  it. 

Adam.  As  thou,  Christ,  to  illume  it,  boldest  Heaven 
Broadly  above  our  heads. 

[The  Christ  is  gradually  transfigured  (luring  the  folloidi^g phruset 
of  dialogue,  into  humanity  and  suffering. 

Eve.  O  Saviour  Christ, 

Thou  standest  mute  in  glory,  like  the  sun. 

Adam.   We  worship  in  Th^^  silence.  Saviour  Christ. 

Eve.    Thy  brows    grow    grander   with    a   forecast 
woe — 
Divine,  with  the  possible  of  death  ! 
We  worship  in  thy  sorrow.  Saviour  Christ. 

Adam.  How  do  l\\j  clear,  still  eyes  transpierce  our 
souls. 
As  gazing /"Aror/^Z).  them  toward  the  Father-throne 
In  a  pathetical,  full  Deit}^, 
Serenely  as  the  stars  gaze  through  tlie  aii 
Straight  on  each  other. 


A      D  R  A  M  A      0  P     E  X  I  L  E .  73 

Eve.  0  pathetic  Christ, 

Thou  staudest  mute  iu  glory,  lilve  the  moou. 

CiriusT.  Eternity  stands  alway  fronting  God  ; 
A  stern  colossal  image,  with  blind  eyes 
And  grand  dim  lips  that  murnuir  evermore 
God,  God,  God  !  wliile  the  rush  of  life  and  death, 
The  roar  of  act  and  thought,  of  evil  and  good, 
The  avalanches  of  the  ruining  worlds 
Tolling  down  space — the  new  worlds'  genesis 
Budding  in  fire — the  gradual  humming  growth 
Of  the  ancient  atoms  and  first  forms  of  earth. 
The  slow  procession  of  the  swathing  seas 
And  firraamental  waters — and  the  noise 
Of  the  broad,  fluent  strata  of  pure  airs — 
All  these  flow  onward  in  the  intervals 
Of  that  reiterated  sound  of — God  ! 
Which  WORD,  innumerous  angels  straightway  lift 
Wide  on  celestial  altitudes  of  song 
And  choral  adoration,  and  then  drop 
The  burden  softl}^,  shutting  the  last  notes 
In  silver  wings.     Howbeit  in  the  noon  of  time 
Eternity  shall  wax  as  dumb  as  Death, 
Wliile  a  new  voice  beneath  the  spheres  shall  cry, 
"  God  !  wh}'  hast  thou  forsaken  me,  mj^  God  ?" 
And  not  a  voice  in  Heaven  shall  answer  it. 

[  Tlie  transfiguration  is  complete  in  sadness. 

Adam.    Thy    speech  is   of  the    Heavenlies,  yet,  0 
Christ, 
Awfully  human  are  thy  voice  and  face. 

Uve.   M}'  nature  overcomes  me  from  thine  eyes. 

Christ.     In  the  set  noon   of  time,  shall  one  from 
Heaven, 
An  angel  fresh  from  looking  upon  God, 
Descend  before  a  woman,  blessing  her 
With  perfect  benediction  of  pure  love. 
For  all  the  world  in  all  its  elements, 
For  all  the  creatures  of  earth,  air,  and  sea, 
For  all  men  in  the  body  and  in  the  soul. 
Unto  all  ends  of  glory  and  sanctity. 

Uve.  0  pale,  pathetic  Christ — I  worship  thee  ! 
I  thank  thee  for  that  woman  ! 

Christ.  Then,  at  last, 

I,  wrapping  round  me  your  humanity, 
Which  being  sustained,  shall  neither  break  nor  burn 
Beneath  the  fii'e  of  Godhead,  will  tread  earth, 
7 


T4  A      DRAMA      OF     EXILE. 

And  ransom  3^011  and  it,  and  set  strong  peace 

Betwixt  you  and  its  creatures.     With  my  panors 

I  will  confront  3'our  sins  ;  and  since  those  sins 

Have  sunken  to  all  Nature's  heart  from  3'ours, 

'J'lie  tears  of  my  clean  soul  shall  follow  them 

And  set  a  hol^^  passion  to  w^ork  clear 

Absolute  consecration.     In  my  brow 

Of  kingly  whiteness,  shall  be  crowned  anew 

Your  discrowned  human  nature.     Look  on  me  ! 

As  I  shall  be  uplifted  on  a  cross 

In  darkness  of  eclipse  and  anguish  dread, 

So  shall  I  lift  up  in  m}"  pierced  hands, 

Not  into  dark,  but  light — not  unto  death, 

But  life — be3'ond  the  reach  of  guilt  and  grief, 

'I'he  Avhole  creation.     Henceforth  in  m^''  name 

Take  coui'age,  0  thou  woman — man,  take  hope! 

Your  grave  shall  be  as  smooth  as  Eden's  sward, 

Beneath  the  steps  of  3'our  prospective  thoughts, 

And,  one  step  past  it,  a  new  Eden-gate 

Shall  open  on  a  hinge  of  harmon3- 

And  let  3'ou  through  to  mercy.     Ye  shall  fall 

No  more,  within  that  Eden,  nor  pass  out 

An3'  more  from  it.     In  which  hope,  move  on, 

First  sinners  and  first  mourners.     Live  and  love — 

Doing  both  nobl3'',  because  lowlil3% 

Live  and  work,  strong!)-,  because  patientl3-. 

And,  for  the  deed  of  death,  trust  it  to  God 

That  it  be  well  done,  unrepented  of, 

And  not  to  loss.     And  thence-,  with  constant  pra3^ers 

Fasten  your  souls  so  high,  that  constantly 

The  smile  of  3'our  heroic  cheer  ma3'^  float 

Above  all  floods  of  earthl3'  agonies, 

Purification  being  the  joy  of  pain, 

\_The  virion  of  Christ  vanishes.  Adam  arid  Eve  gland  in  an  ec- 
stasy. The  earth-zodiac  pales  away  shade  by  shade,  as  the  stars, 
star  by  star,  shine  out  in  the  sky  ;  and  the  followiny  chant  from 
the  two  Earth  Spirits  (crs  they  sweep  back  into  the  zodiac  and  dis- 
appear with  it)  accompanies  the  process  of  change. 

Earth  Sjnrifs. 

By  the  might3^  word  thus  spoken 
Both  for  living  and  for  d3'ing, 
We,  our  homage-03th  once  broken. 
Fasten  back  again  in  sighing. 
And  the  creatures  and  the  elements  renew  their  cove- 
nantincr. 


A     D  11  A  M  A      O  F      E  X  I  L  E .  t?. 

Here,  forgive  us  all  our  scorning; 

Here,  we  promise  milder  duty. 
And  the  evening  jind  the  morning 

Shall  re-organize  in  beaut}' 
A  sabbath  day  of  sabbath  joy,  for  universal  chanting, 

And  if,  still,  this  melancholy 

^lay  be  strong  to  overcome  us, 
If  this  mortal  and  unholy 

^^'e  still  fail  to  cast  out  from  ns — 
[f  we  turn   upon  ^-ou,   unaware,   your  own  dark  m- 
fluences — 

If  ye  tremble  when  surrounded 

I3y  our  forest  pine  and  palm-trees. 
If  we  cannot  cure  the  wounded 

With  our  gum-trees  and  our  balm-trees. 
And  if  your  souls  all  mournfullj^  sit  down  among  3'our 
senses — 

Yet,  0  mortals,  do  not  fear  us. 

We  are  gentle  in  our  languor. 
Much  more  good  3'e  shall  have  near  us 
Than  any  pain  or  anger, 
And  our  God's  refracted  blessing  in  our  blessing  shall 
be  given. 

By  the  desert's  endless  vigil 

We  will  solemnize  your  passions. 
B3'  the  wheel  of  the  black  eagle 
We  will  teach  you  exaltations, 
When  he  sails  against  the  wind,  to  the  white  spot  up 
in  Heaven. 

Ye  shall  find  us  tender  nurses 
To  3'our  weariness  of  nature, 
And  our  hands  shall  stroke  the  curse's 
Drear}'  furrows  from  the  creature. 
Till  your  bodies  shall  lie  smooth  in  death,  and  straight 
and  slumberful. 

Then,  a  couch  we  will  provide  you 

Where  no  summer  heats  shall  dazzle. 
Strewing  on  you  and  beside  you 
Thyme  and  rosemary  and  basil — 
A.nd  the  yew-tree  shall  grow  overhead  to  keep  all  saf« 
and  cool. 


76  A      DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

Till  the  H0I3'  blood  awaited 

Shall  be  chrism  around  us  runuing, 
Whereby,  newly-consecrated 

We  shall  leap  up  in  God's  sunning, 
To   join    the    spheric    company    wliich    purer    worlds 
assemble. 

While,  renewed  b}'  new  evangels, 

Soul-consummated,  made  glorious, 
Ye  shall  brighten  past  the  angels, 
Ye  shall  kneel  to  Christ  victorious, 
And  the  rays  around  His  feet  beneath  your  sobbing 
lips,  shall  tremble, 

[The  phantaslk  vision  has  nil  jmsfed ;  ihc  earlh-zodiac  has  broken 
like  a  belt,  and  is  dissolved  from  the  desert.  The  Earth  Spirits 
vanish,  and  the  stars  shine  out  above. 

CHORUS  OF  IXVISIBLE  ANGELS. 
ir/fiVe  Adam  and  Eve  advance  into  the  desert,  hand  in  hani. 
Hear  our  heavenly  promise 

Through  your  mortal  passion  ! 
Love,  ye  shall  have  from  us, 

In  a  pure  relation. 
As  a  fish  or  bird 

Swims  or  flies,  if  moving, 
We  unseen  are  heard 

To  live  on  by  loving. 
Far  aboA'e  the  glances 

Of  your  eager  eyes, 
Listen  !  we  are  loving  ! 
Listen,  through  man's  ignorances, 
Listen,  through  God's  mj-steries, 
Listen  down  the  heart  of  things — 
Ye  shall  shall  hear  our  mystic  wings 

Murmurous  with  loving. 

Through  the  opal  door 

lasten  evermore 

How  we  live  by  loving. 
First  semi-choi'us. 

When  your  bodies  therefore 

Reach  the  grave  their  goal, 
Softlj^  will  we  care  for 

Each  enfranchised  soul. 
Softl,y  and  unlothly 

Through  the  door  of  opal 

Toward  the  Heavenly  people, 


'  A     DRAMA     OP     EXILE. 

Floated  on  a  minor  fine 
Into  the  full  chant  divine, 

We  will  draw  you  smoothly — 
While  the  human  in  tho  minor 
Makes  the  harmony  diyincr. 
Listen  to  our  loving! 
Second  semi-chorui^. 

There,  a  sough  of  glory 

Shall  breathe  on  you  as  you  come, 
Ruflling  round  the  doorwa3- 

All  the  light  of  angeldoni. 
From  the  empyrean  centre 

Heavenly  voices  shall  repeat, 
"  Souls  redeemed  and  pardoned,  enter, 

For  the  chrism  on  you  is  sweet.'" 
And  every  angel  in  the  place 
Lowlil^^  shall  bow  his  face. 

Folded  fair  on  softened  sounds. 
Because  upon  your  hands  and  feet 

He  images  his  Master's  wounds. 
Listen  to  our  loving. 
First  semi-choruH. 

So,  in  the  universe's 

Consummated  undoing. 
Our  seraphs  of  white  mercies 

Shall  hover  round  the  ruin! 
Their  wings  shall  stream  upon  the  flame 
As  if  incoi'porate  of  the  same 

In  elemental  fusion. 
And  calm  tlieir  faces  shall  burn  out 
With  a  pale  and  mastering  thought, 
And  a  steadfast  l(;oking  of  desire 
From  out  between  the  clefts  of  fire — 
V     While  they  cry,  in  the  Holy's  name, 

To  the  final  Restitution. 
Listen  to  our  loving! 
Second  semi-chorus. 

So,  when  the  day  of  God  is 

To  the  thick  graves  accomj)ted, 
Awaking  the  dead  bodies 

The  angel  of  the  trumpet 
♦  Shall  split  and  shatter  tlie  earth 

To  the  roots  of  the  grave 
Which  never  before  were  slackened, 

And  quicken  the  charnel  birth 
With  his  blest  so  clear  and  brave, 


7ft  A      DRAMA      OF     EXILE. 

'Hiat  the  Dead  shall  start  and  stand  erect, 
And  evciy  face  of  the  burial-place 
Shall  the  awful,  single  look  rellect, 

Wherewith  he  them  awakened. 
Listen  to  our  loving. 
First  semi-chorus 

But  wild  is  the  horse  of  Death. 
He  Avill  leap  up  wild  at  the  clamour 

Above  and  beneatli. 

And  where  is  his  Tamer 

On  that  last  day, 

When  ho  crietli  Ha,  Ha ! 

To  the  trumpet's  blare, 
And  pawetli  the  earth's  Aceldama? 

When  he  tosseth  his  head, 

The  drear-white  steed, 
And  ghastlil}'  champeth  the  last  moon-ray — 

What  aaigel  there 

Can  lead  him  awa}^ 
That  the  living  ma}'  rule  for  the  Dead  ? 
Second  semi-chorus 

Yet  a  Tamer  shall  be  found  ! 

One  more  bright  than  seraph  crowned, 

And  more  strong  than  cherub  bold, 

Elder,  too,  than  angel  old, 

By  his  grey  eternities. 

He  shall  master  and  surprise 

The  steed  of  Death, 
For  He  is  strong,  and  He  is  fain. 
He  shall  quell  him  with  a  breath, 
And  shall  lead  him  where  He  will, 
With  a  whisper  in  the  ear, 

Full  of  fear — 
And  a  hand  upon  the  mane, 
Grand  and  still. 

First  semi-c)torus. 
Through  the  flats  of  Hades  where  the  souls  assemlile 
He    will    guide    the    Death-steed   calm  between  their 

ranks 
While,  like  beaten  dogs,  they  a  little  moan  and  tremble 
To  see  the  darkness  curdle  fj-om  the  horse's  glittQring 

flanks. 
Through  the  flats  of  Hades  where  the  drearj-  shade  is, 
Up  the  steep   of   Heaven,  will  the  Tamer  guide  the 

steed — 


"T 


'   / 


/ 


L 


A      D  U  A  MA      OF      E  X  I  r>R. 


Up  the  spheric  circles — circle  above  circle,     "*  /,' »  . 

We  who  count  the  ages,  shall  count  the  tolling  tread —  "  ^  / 
Every  foot-fall  striking  a  blinder,  blanker  sparkle 
From  the  ston}^  orbs,  which  shall  show  as  they  were  dead. 

Bi'.ron d  t<e m i-ch orus. 
All  the  way  the   Death-steed  with  tolling  hoofs  shall 

travel, 
Ashen  grey  the  planets  shall  he  motionless  as  stones, 
Looscl}'  shall  the  systems  eject  their  parts  coteval — 
Stagnant  in  the  spaces,  shall  (loat  the  pallid  moons. 
Suns  that  touch  their  apogees,  reeling  from  their  level, 
Shall  run  back  on  their  axles,  in  wild,  low,  broken  tunes. 

Chorus. 
Up  against  the  arches  of  the  cr^ystal  ceiling. 
From  the    horse's  nostrils   shall  steam   the  blurting 

breath. 
Up  between  the  angels  pale  with  silent  feeling. 
Will  the  Tamer,  calmly,  lead  the  horse  of  Death. 

Semi-chorus. 
Cleaving  all  that  silence,  cleaving  all  that  glory. 
Will  the  Tamer  lead  him  straightway  to  the  Throne: 
"  Look  out,  O  Jehovah,  to  this  I  bring  before  Thee 
With  a  hand  nail-pierced — I,  who  am  thy  Son." 
Tlien  the  Eye  Divinest,  from  the  Deepest,  flaming. 
On  the  mystic  courser,  shall  look  out  in  lire. 
Blind  the  beast  shall  stagger  where  It  overcame  him, 
Meek  as  lamb  at  pasture — bloodless  in  desire. 
Down  the  beast  shall  shiver — slain  amid  the  taming — 
And,  liy  Life  essential,  the  phantasm  Death  expire. 

Cho7-us. 

Listen,  man,  through  life  and  death, 
Through  the  dust  and  through  the  breath, 
Listen  down  the  heart  of  things  ! 
Ye  shall  hear  our  mystic  wings 
Murmurous  with  loving. 

A  Voice  from  below.     Gabriel,  thou  Gabriel ! 

AVoice  from  above.     What  wouldst  tJiou  with  me  7 

First  Voice.     I  heard  thy  voice  sound  in  the  angel's 
song, 
And  I  would  give  thee  question. 

Second    Voice.     Question  me. 

First    Voice.     Why  have  I  called  thrice  to  my  Morn 
ing  Star 
And  had  no  answer?     All  the  stars  are  out, 
And  answer  in  their  places.     Only  in  vain 
I  cast  my  voice  against  the  outer  ra^s 


:,/ 


80  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

Of  my  Star,  sLut  in  light  behind  the  snn. 
No  more  reply  than  from  a  breaking  string, 
Breaking  when  toucherl.     Or  is  she  not  m}-  star? 
Where  is  my  Star — m}'  Star  ?     Have  3'e  cast  down 
Her  glory  like  my  glory  ?  has  she  waxed 
Mortal,  like  Adam !  has  she  learnt  to  hate 
Like  any  angel  ? 

Second    Voice,     She  is  sad  for  thee. 
All  things  grow  sadder  to  thee,  one  by  one 
Angel  chorus. 

Live,  work  on,  0  Earthy  ! 
By  the  Actual's  tension, 
Speed  the  arrow  worthy 

Of  a  pure  ascension. 
From  the  low  earth  round  j'^ou. 
Reach  the  heights  above  yon  ! 
From  the  stripes  that  wound  3'ou, 

Seek  the  loves  that  love  youl 
God's  divinest  burneth  plain 
Through  the  crystal  diaphane 
Of  our  loves  that  love  you. 
First  Voice.     Gabriel,  O  Gabriel ! 
Second   Voice.     What  wouldst //)ou  with  me  ? 
First   Voice.     Is  it  true,  0  thou  Gabriel,  that  '.be 
crown 
Of  sorrow  which  I  claimed,  another  claims  ? 
That  He  claims  that  too  ? 

Second   Voice.     Lost  one,  it  is  true. 
Fir.'it    Voice.     That  He  will  be  an  exile  from  His 
Heaven, 
To  lead  those  exiles  homeward  ? 

Second   Voice.  It  is  true. 

First   Voice.     That  He  will  be  an  exile  by  His  will 
As  I  b}'  mine  election  ? 

Second   Voice.  It  is  true. 

First  Voice.     That  I  shall  stand  sole  exile  finally — 
Made  desolate  for  fruition  ? 

Second   Voice.  It  is  true. 

First-  Voice.  Gabriel  1 
Second    Voice.  I  harken. 

First   Voice.  Is  it  true  besides— 

Aright  true — that  mine  orient  Star  will  give 
Her  name  of  "  Bright  and  Morning  Star  "  to  Him — 
And  take  the  fairness  of  His  virtue  back, 
To  cover  loss  and  sadness  ? 

Second   Voice.  It  is  true. 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  81 

Firnt    Voice.     Untrue,  Untrue!      0  Morning-Star, 
0  Mine, 
Who  sittest  secret  in  a  veil  of  light 
Far  up  the  starry  spaces,  say — Untrue. 
Speak  but  so  loud  as  doth  a  wasted  moon 
To  Tyrrhene  waters.     I  am  Lucifer. 

[.i  pi.iit.     Silence  in  the  .siars 

All  things  grow  sadder  to  me,  one  by  one. 
Angel  chorus. 

Exiled  human  creatures, 

Let  your  hope  grow  larger. 
Larger  grows  the  vision 

Of  the  new  delight. 
From  this  chain  of  Nature's 

God  is  the  Discharger, 
And  tlie  Actual's  prison 

Opens  to  your  sight. 
Semi-chorus. 

Calm  the  stars  and  golden, 

In  a  light  exceeding; 
What  their  raj's  have  measured,. 

Let  your  feet  fulfil ! 
These  are  stars  beholden 

By  your  eyes  in  Eden, 
Yet  across  the  desert, 

See  them  shining  still. 
Chorus. 

Future  J03'  and  far  light 

Working  such  relations, 
Hear  us  singing  gently. 

Exiled  is  not  lost. 
God,  above  the  starlight, 

God,  above  the  patience, 
Shall  at  last  present  ye 

Guerdons  worth  the  cost. 
Patiently  enduring, 

Painfully  surrounded. 
Listen  how  we  love  j'ou, 

Hope  the  uttermost. 
Waiting  for  that  curing 

Which  exalts  the  woundea, 
Hear  us  sing  above  j'ou — 

Exiled,  but  not  lost! 

£77(6  stars  shine  on  brightly,  while  Adam  and  Eve  pwtue  their  tbay 
into  the  far  wilderness.     There  is  a  sound  thronc/h  Ihesilaice  cm 
of  the  falling  tears  of  an  angel. 
F 


THE  SERAPHIM. 


1  look  for  angels'  songs,  and  hear  Him  cry. 

Giles  Fletchkb. 


PART  THE  FIRST. 

[/i!  is  the  time  of  the  Crucifixion  ;  and  the  angels  of  heaven  have  de- 
jiarted  ioicardx  the  earth,  except  the  two  seraphim,  Ador  iht 
Strong  and  Zeraii  the  Bright  One. 

The  place  is  the  outer  side  of  the  shut  heavenly  gate.'\ 

Ador.  0  SERAPn,  pause  no  more. 
Beside  this  i^ate  of  Leaven  Ave  stand  alone.  ' 

Zerali.  Of  heaven! 

Ador.  Our  brother  hosts  arc  gone — 

Zerah.  Are  gone  before. 

Ador.  And  the  golden  harps  the  angels  bore 
To  lielp  the  songs  of  their  desire, 
Still  burning  from  their  hands  of  fire. 
Lie  without  touch  or  tone 
Upon  the  glass-sea  shore. 
Zerah.   Silent  upon  the  glass-sea  shore ! 
Ador.  There  the  Shadow  from  the  throne 
Formless  with  infinit}' 
Hovers  o'er  the  chr^stal  sea ; 
Awfnller  than  liuht  derived, 
And  red  with  those  primaeval  heats 
Whereb}^  all  life  has  lived. 
Zerah.  Our  visible  God,  our  heavenl}-  seats! 
Ador.  Beneath  us  sinks  the  pomp  angelical, 

Cherub  and  seraph,  powers  and  virtues,  all — 

The  roar  of  whose  descent  has  died 
To  a  still  sound,  as  thunder  into  rain. 

Immeasurable  space  sjjreads  magnified 
With  that  thick  life,  along  the  plane 
The  worlds  "slid  out  on.     What  a  fall 
And  eddy  of  wings  innumerous,  crossed 
liy  trailing  curls  that  have  not  lost 

82 


T  H  E      S  ER  AP  III  M.  83 

The  glitter  of  the  God-smile  shed 
On  every  prostrate  ang-ePs  hoail  I 
What  gloaming  up  of  hands  that  flinor 
Their  homage  in  retorted  rays, 
From  high  instinct  of  wovishipping, 
And  habitude  of  praise. 
Zerah.  Rapidl^-^  the3'  drop  below  us. 

Pointed  palm  and  wing  and  hair 
Indistinguishable  show  us 
Only  jjulses  in  the  air 
Throbbing  with  a  fiery  beat, 
As  if  a  new  creation  heard 
Some  divine  and  plastic  word, 
And  trembling  at  its  new-found  beino", 
Awakened  at  our  feet. 
Ador.  Zerah,  do  not  wait  for  seeing. 
His  voice,  His,  that  thrills  us  so 
As  we  our  harpstrings,  uttered  Go, 
Behold  the  Holy  in  His  icoe. 
And  all  are  gone,  save  thee  and — 
Zerah.  Thee  I 

Ador.  I  stood  the  nearest  to  the  throne 
In  hierarchical  degree. 
What  time  the  Voice  said  Go. 
And  whether  I  was  moved  alone 
By  the  storm  pathos  of  the  tone 
Which  swept  through  heaven  the  alien  name  of  ivoe. 
Or  whether  the  subtle  glory  broke 
Through  my  strong  and  shielding  wings, 
Bearing  to  my  finite  essence 
Incapacious  of  their  presence, 
Infinite  imaginings, 
None  knoweth  save  the  Thronei)  who  spoke  ; 
But  I,  who,  at  creation,  stood  upright 

And  heard  the  God-Breath  move 
Shaping  '■he  words  that  lightened,  "  Be  there  light." 
Nor  trembled  but  with  love, 
Now  fell  down  shudderingly. 
My  face  upon  the  pavement  whence  I  had  towered, 
As  it' in  mine  immortal  overpowered 
By'  God's  eternit\'. 
Zerah.  Let  me  wait ! — let  me  wait ! — 
^  Ador.  Nay,  gaze  not  backward  through  the  gate, 
God  fills  our  heaven  with  God's  own  solitude 

Till  all  the  pavements  glow. 
His  Godhead  being  no  more  subdued 


84  THE      SERAPHIM. 

By  itself,  to  glories  low 

Wliicli  seraphs  can  sustain, 
Wlmt  if  thou,  in  gazing  so, 
Shouldst  behold  bnt  only  one 
Attribute,  the  veil  undone — 
Even  that  to  which  we  dare  to  press 
Nearest,  for  its  gentleness — 

Aye,  His  love ! 
How  the  deep  ecstatic  pain 
Thy  being's  strength  would  capture  I 
Without  language  for  the  rapture, 
'\^'ithout  music  strong  to  come 

And  set  the  adoration  free, 
For  ever,  ever,  wouldst  thou  be 
Amid  the  general  chorus  dumb, 
God-stricken  to  seraphic  agony! — 
Or,  brother,  what  if  on  thine  eyes 
In  vision  bare  should  rise 
The  life-fount  whence  His  hand  did  gather 
With  solitary  force 
Our  immortalities ! 
Straightway  how  thine  own  would  wither, 
Falter  like  a  human  breath. 
And  shrink  into  a  point  like  death, 
By  gazing  on  its  source!  — 
M^^  words  have  imaged  di-ead. 
Meekly  hast  thou  lient  thine  head, 
And  dropt  thy  wings  in  languishment 
Overclouding  foot  and  foce. 
As  if  God's  throne  were  eminent 
Before  thee,  in  the  place. 
Yet  not — not  so, 

0  loving  spirit  and  meek,  dost  thou  fulfil 
The  su[)reme  Will. 

Not  for  obeisance  but  obedience. 
Give  motion  to  thy  wings.     Depart  from  hen<«. 
The  voice  said  "  Go." 
Zerah.  Beloved,  I  depart. 
His  will  is  as  a  spirit  within  my  spii'it, 
A  portion  of  the  being  I  inlierit. 
His  will  is  mine  ol)e(lience.      1  resemble 
A  flame  all  undeiiled  though  it  tremble; 

1  go  and  tremble.     Love  me,  0  beloved . 

O  thou,  who  stronger  art. 
And  standest  ever  near  the  Infinite, 
Pale  with  the  light  of  Light ! 


T  H  E      S  K  R  A  P  II  I  M  .  85 

[.ove  me,  beloved !  inc,  more  newly  made, 

More  leeltle,  more  afraid; 
And  let  me  hear  with  mine  tli}-  pinions  moved, 
As  close  and  gentle  as  tlie  loving  are, 
That  love  being  near,  lieaven  may  not  seem  so  fiir. 
Ado7\   I  am  near  thee  and  I  love  thee. 
Were  I  loveless,  from  thee  gone. 
Love  is  round,  beneath,  above  thee, 
God,  the  omnipresent  One. 
Spread  the  wing,  and  lift  the  brow. 
Well-beloved,  what  fearest  thou  ? 
Zerali.  I  fear,  I  fear — 
Ador.  What  fear  ? 

Zerah.  The  fear  of  eartli. 

Ador.  Of  earth,  the  God-created  and  God-praised. 
In  the  hour  of  birth  ? 
Where  every  night,  the  moon  in  light 
Dolli  lead  tile  waters  silver-faced  ? 
Where  eveiy  day,  the  sun  doth  lay 
A  rapture  to  the  lieart  of  all 

The  leafy  and  reeded  pastoral, 
A>  if  the  jo3'ous  shout  which  burst 

From  angel  lips  to  see  him  first, 
Had  left  a  silent  echo  in  his  ray? 
Zerah.  Of  earth — the   God-created  and   God-curst, 
Where  man  is,  and  the  thorn. 
Where  sun  and  moon  have  borne, 
No  light  to  souls  forlorn. 
Where  Eden's  tree  of  life  no  more  aprears 
Its  spiral  leaves  and  fruitage,  but  instead 
The  yew-tree  bows  its  melancholy  head 
And  all  the  undergrasses  kills  and  seres. 

Ador.  Of  earth  the  Aveak, 
Made  and  unmade  ? 

Where  men  that  faint,  do  strive  for  crowns  that  fade? 
Where,  having  won  the  profit  Avhich  they  seek, 
'fhe}'  lie  beside  the  sceptre  and  the  gold 
With  fleshless  hands  that  cannot  wield  or  hold, 
And  the  stars  shine  in  their  unwinking  ej^es  1 
Zerah.  Of  earth  the  bold, 

AVhere  the  blind  matter  wrings 
An  awful  potenee  out  of  impotence, 
Bowing  the  spiritual  things 

To  the  things  of  sense. 
Where  the  human  will  replies 
With  ay  and  no, 
8 


i^  THESERAPHI3I. 

Because  the  human  pulse  is  quick  or  slow. 
Where  Love  succumbs  to  Change, 
With  only  his  own  memories  for  revenge. 
And  the  fearful  mystery — 

Ador.  Called  Death  ? 

Zerah.  lSf\,y,  death.is  fearful — but  who  saith 
"  To  die,"  is  comprehensible. 
What's  fearfuller,  thou  knowest  well, 
Though  the  utterance  be  not  for  thee. 
Lest  it  blanch  thy  lips  from  glor^- — 
A}'  1  the  cursed  thing  that  moved 
A  shadow  of  ill,  long  times  ago, 
Across  our  heaven's  own  shining  floor, 
And  when  it  vanished,  some  who  were 
On  thrones  of  holy  empire  there. 
Did  reign — were  seen — were — never  more. 
Come  nearer,  0  beloved  ! 
Ador.  I  am  near  thee.     Didst  thou  bear  thee 

Ever  to  this  earth  ? 
Zerah.  Before. 

When  thrilling  from  his  hand  along 
Its  lustrous  path  with  spheric  song 
The  earth  was  deathless,  sorrowless. 
Unfearing,  then,  pure  feet  iiiight  press 
The  grasses  brightening  with  their  feet. 
For  God's  own  voice  did  mix  its  sound 
In  a  solemn  confluence  oft 
With  the  rivers'  flowing  round, 
And  the  life-trees  waving  soft, 
Beautiful  new  earth  and  strange  ! 
Ador.  Hast  thou  seen  it  since — the  change  ? 
Zerah.  Nay,  or  wherefore  should  I  fear 
To  look  upon  it  now  ? 
I  have  beheld  the  ruined  things 
Only  in  depicturings 
Of  angels  from  an  earthly  mission — 
Strong  one,  even  upon  th}-  brow, 
When,  with  task  completed,  given 
Back  to  us  in  that  transition, 
I  have  beheld  thee  silent  stand. 
Abstracted  in  the  seraph  band. 

Without  a  smile  in  heaven, 
Ador.  Then  tliou  wast  not  one  of  those 
Whom  the  loving  Father  chose 
In  visionar}^  pomp  to  sweep 
O'er  Judaea's  grass}-  places,   • 


Til  E      SE  R  AP  HI  M.  81 

O'er  the  shepherds  and  tlic  sheep, 
Though  thou  art  so  tender  ? — dimmin<T, 
All  the  stars  except  one  star 
With  their  brighter  kinder  faces, 
And  using  heaven's  own  tune  in  hj-mning. 
While  deep  response  I'rom  earth's  own  mountain  ran 
"  Peace  upon  earth — good-will  to  man." 
Zerah.   "  Glory  to  God." — I  said  amen  afar. 
And  those  who  from  that  earthl}^  mission  are. 

Within  mine  ears  have  told 
That  the  seven  everlasting  Spirits  did  hold 
With  such  a  sweet  and  prodigal  constraint 
The  meaning  yet  the  mystery  of  the  song, 
What  time  the}*  sang  it,  on  their  natures  strong. 
That,  gazing  down  on  earth's  dark  steadfastness 
And  speaking  the  new  peace  in  promises. 
The  love  and  pity  made  their  voices  faint 
Into  the  low  and  tender  music,  keeping 
The  place  in  heaven,  of  what  on  earth  is  weeping. 
Ador.  Peace  upon  earth.     Come  down  to  it. 
Zerah.  Ah  nie 

I  hear  thereof  uncomprehendingly. 
Peace  where  the  tempest,  where  the  sighing  is, 
And  woi'ship  of  the  idol,  'stead  of  His  ? 
Ador.     Yea,  peace,  where  He  is. 
Zerah.  He ! 

Say  it  again. 

Ador.  Where  He  is. 

Zerah.  Can  it  be 

That  earth  retains  a  tree 

Whose  leaves,  like  Eden  foliage,  can  be  swayed 
By  the  breathing  of  His  voice,  nor  shrink  and  fade  . 

Ador.  There  is  a  tree  ! — it  hath  no  leaf  nor  root — 
Upon  it  hangs  a  curse  for  all  its  fruit: 
Its  shadow  on  His  head  is  laid. 
For  He,  the  crowned  Son, 
Has  left  his  crown  and  throne, 
Walks  earth  in  Adam's  clay. 
Eve's  snake  to  bruise  and  sla}^ — 
Zerah.   Walks  earth  in  clay  ? 
Ador.  And  walking  in  the  day  which  He  created, 
He  through  it  shall  touch  death, 
What  do  I  utter?  what,  conceive  !  did  breath 
Of  demon  howl  it  in  a  blasphem}'  ? 
Or  was  it  mine  own  voice,  informed,  dilated 


83  THE      SERAPHIM. 

By  the  seven  confluent  Spirits? — Speak — answer  me  I 
Who  said  man's  victim  was  liis  Deit_y  ? 
Ze7-ah.  Beloved,  beloved,  the  word  came  forHi  from 
thee. 
Thine  eyes  are  rolling  a  tempestuous  light 

Al/ove,  below,  around, 
As  putting  thunder-questions  without  cloud, 

Reverberate  witliout  sound. 
To  universal  nature's  depth  and  height. 
The  tremor  of  an  inexpressive  thought 
Too  self-amazed  to  shape  itself  aloud, 
O'erruns  the  awful  curving  of  thy  lips  ; 

And  while  thine  hands  are  stretched  aboA-e, 
As  newlj'the^'  had  caught 
Some  lightning  from  the  Throne,  or  showed  the  Lord 

Some  retributive  sword, 
Thy  brows  do  alternate  with  wild  eclipse 
And  radiance,  with  contrasted  wrath  and  love, 
As  God  had  called  thee  to  a  seraph's  part, 

AVith  a  man's  quailing  heart. 
Ador.  0  heart — 0  heart  of  man  ! 
O  ta'en  from  human  clay, 
To  be  no  seraph's  but  Jehovah's  own  ! 
Made  holy  in  the  taking, 
And  yet  unseparate 
From  death's  perpetual  ban. 
And  human  feelings  sad  and  passionate ! 
Still  subject  to  the  treacherous  forsaking 
Of  other  hearts,  and  its  own  stedfast  i^ain  ! 
0  heart  of  man — 0  God  !  whieh  God  has  ta'en 
From  out  the  dust,  with  its  humanity 
Mournful  and  weak  j'et  innocent  around  it. 
And  bade  its  many  pulses  beating  lie 
Beside  that  incommunicable  stir 
Of  Deity  wherewith  He  intervvound  it. 
0  man  !  and  is  thy  nature  so  deliled. 
That  all  that  holj'  Heart's  devout  law-keeping, 
And  low  pathetic  beat  in  deserts  wild, 
And  gushings  pitiful  of  tender  weeping 
For  traitors  who  consigned  it  to  such  woe — 
That  all  could  cleanse  thee  not,  without  the  flow 
Of  blood,  the  life-blood — His — and  streaming  aof 
0  earth  the  thundercleft,  windshaken,  where 
The  louder  voice  of  "blood  and  blood"  doth  rise, 
Hast  thou  an  altar  for  this  sacrifice  ? 
0  heaven — 0  vacant  throne ! 


THE      S  E  U  A  P  II  I  M  .  89 

0  crowned  hierarchies,  tliat  wear  your  crown 

When  His  is  put  awa}' ! 
Ai"e  ye  unshamed  lliat  ye  cannot  dim 
Your  alien  brightness  to  be  Ulcer  Him — 
Assume  a  human  passion,  and  down-lay 
Your  sweet  secureness  for  congenial  fears, 
And  teach  3'our  cloudless  ever-burning  ej'es 
The  mystery  of  His  teax's? 
Zerah.  I  am  strong,  I  am  strong. 

Were  I  never  to  see  my  heaven  again, 

I  would  wheel  to  earth  like  the  tempest  rain 

Which  sweeps  there  with  an  exultant  sound 

To  lose  its  life  as  it  reaches  the  ground. 

I  am  strong,  I  am  strong. 

Away  from  mine  inward  vision  swim 

The  shining  seats  of  my  heavenly  birth — 

I  see  but  His,  I  see  but  Him — 

The  Maker's  steps  on  His  cruel  earth. 

Will  the  bitter  herbs  of  earth  grow  sweet 

To  me,  as  trodden  by  His  feet  ? 

Will  the  vexed,  accurst  humanit}', 

As  worn  by  Him,  begin  to  be 

A  blessed,  yea,  a  sacred  thing. 

For  love,  and  awe,  and  ministering? 

I  am  strong,  I  am  strong. 
By  our  angel  ken  shall  we  survey 
His  loving  smile  through  his  woeful  clay? 

I  am  swift,  I  am  strong — 
The  love  is  bearing  me  along. 
Ador.  One  love  is  bearing  us  along. 


PART  THE  SECOND. 

T Mid-air,  above  Judea.     Ador  and  Zerah  are  a  liltle  apart  from  iki 
.   visible  angelic  hosts.] 

Ador.  Beloved  !  dost  thou  see  ? — 
Zei-ah.  Thee — thee. 

Thy  burning  eyes  already  are 

Grown  wild  and  mournful  as  a  star 

Whose  occupation  is  for  aye 

To  look  upon  the  place  of  clay 
Whereon  thou  lookest  now. 

The  crown  is  fainting  on  thy  brow 

To  the  likeness  of  a  cloud. 

The  forehead's  self  a  little  bowed 

8* 


yO  T  H  E      S  E  R  A  P  H  I  M  . 

From  its  aspect  high  and  holy, 
As  it  would  in  meekness  meet 
Some  seraphic  melancholy. 
Thy  very  wings  that  lately  flung 
An  outline  clear,  do  flicker  here, 
And  wear  to  each  a  shadow  hun^ 

Dropped  across  thy  feet. 
In  these  strange  contrasting  glooms 
Stagnant  with  the  scent  of  tombs. 
Seraph  faces,  O  mj^  brother, 
Show  awfull}^  to  one  another. 
Ador.  Dost  thou  see  ? 
Zerah.  Even  so — I  see 

Our  empyreal  company. 

Alone  the  memory  of  tbeir  brightness 
Left  in  them,  as  in  thee, 
The  circle  upon  circle,  tier  on  tier, 
Piling  earth's  hemisphere 
With  heavenl}^  inflniteness, 
Above  us  and  around, 
Straining  the  whole  horizon  like  a  bow ! 
Their  songful  lips  divorced  from  all  sound, 
A  dai-kness  gliding  down  their  silvery  glances — 
Bowing  their  stedfast,  solemn  countenances 
As  if  they  heard  God  speak,  and  could  not  glow. 
Ador.  Look  downward  !  dost  thou  see  ? 
Zerah.  And  wouldst  thou  press  that  vision  on  mj 
words  ? 
Doth  not  earth  speak  enough 
Of  change  and  of  undoing. 
Without  a  seraph's  witness  ?     Oceans  rouoh 
With  tempest,  pastoral  swards 
Displaced  by  fiery  deserts,  mountains  ruing 
Tile  bolt  fallen  yesterda}'. 
That  shake  their  piney  heads,  as  who  would  say 

"  We  are  too  beautiful  for  our  decay" — 
Shall  seraphs  speak  of  these  things  ?  Let  alone 
Earth,  to  her  earthly  moan. 
Voice  of  all  things.  Is  there  no  moan  but  hers  ? 
Ador.  Hearest  thou  the  attestation, 
Of  the  roused  Universe, 
Like  a  desert  lion  shaking 
Dews  of  silence  from  its  mane  ? 
With  an  irrepressive  passion 

Uprising  at  once, 
Rising  up,  and  forsaking 


THE     S  E  U  A  P  II  T  M  . 

Its  solemn  state  in  the  circle  of  suns, 

To  attest  the  pain 
Of  Him  who  stands  (O  patience  sweet !) 
In  His  own  hand-prints  of  creation, 
With  human  feet  ? 
Voice  of  all  things.  Is  there  no  moan  but  ours  ? 
Zerah.   Forms,  Spaces,  Motions  wide, 

0  meek,  insensate  things, 
0  congregated  matters  !   who  inherit 
Instead  of  vital  powers. 
Impulsions  God-supplied  ; 
Instead  of  influent  spirit,  • 

A  clear  informing  beauty  ; 
Instead  of  creature  duty,  • 

Submission  calm  as  rest ! 
Lights,  without  feet  or  wings, 
In  golden  courses  sliding  1 
Glooms,  stagnantly  subsiding, 
Whose  lustrous  heart  away  was  prest 
Into  the  argent  stars! 
Ye  crystal,  firmamental  bars. 
That  hold  the  sk^'ey  waters  IVce 
From  tide  or  tempest's  ecstasy  1 
Airs  universal!  thunders  lorn, 
That  wait  your  lightnings  in  cloud-cave 
Hewn  out  by  the  winds!     0  brave 
And  subtle  elements  !  the  Holy 
Ilath  charged  me  b}*  your  voice  with  folly.* 
Enough,  the  mystic  arrow  leaves  its  wound. 
Return  ye  to  3'our  silences  inborn, 
Or  to  your  inarticulated  sound. 
Ador.  Zerah. 

Zerah.  V\'\\l  Ihou  rebuke? 
God  hath  rebuked  me,  brother. — I  am  weak. 

Ador.  Zerali,  my  brother  Zerah  ! — could  I  speak 
Of  thee,  'twould  be  of  love  to  thee. 

Zerah.  Th_y  look 

Is  fixed  on  earth,  as  mine  upon  thy  face. 
Where  shall  I  seek  His  ? 

I  have  thrown 
One  look  upon  earth,  but  one, 
Over  the  blue  mountain-lines. 
Over  the  forests  of  palms  and  pines, 
Over  the  harvest-lauds  golden, 

*  "  His  angels  He  charged  with  folly." — Job  17.  18. 


92  THE     SERATHIM. 

Over  the  A-alleys  that  fold  in 
The  gardens  and  vines — 

He  is  not  there. 
All  these  are  unworth}^ 
Those  footsteps  to  bear, 
Before  which,  bowing  down 
[  would  fain  quench  the  stars  of  my  crown 
In  the  dark  of  the  earthj^ 
Where  shall  I  seek  Him  ? 

No  reply  ? 
Hath  language  left  thy  lips,  to  place 

Jts  vocal  in  thine  eye  ? 
Ador,  Ador  !  are  we  come 
To  a  double  portent,  that 
Dumb  matter  grows  articulate 
And  songful  seraphs  dumb  ? 
Ador,  Ador ! 
Ador.  I  constrain 

The  passion  of  my  silence.     None 
Of  those  places  gazed  upon 
Are  gloom}'  enow  to  fit  His  pain. 
Unto  Him,  whose  forming  word 
Gave  to  Nature  flower  and  sward, 
She  hath  given  back  again, 
For  the  myrtle,  the  thorn. 
For  the  sylvan  calm,  the  human  scorn. 
Still,  still,  reluctant  seraph,  gaze  beneath  1 

There  is  a  cit}- 

Zerah.  Temple  and  tower, 

Palace  and  purple  would  droop  like  a  flower, 
(Or  a  cloud  at  our  breath) 
If  He  neared  in  His  state 
The  outermost  gate. 
Ador.  Ah  me,  not  so 

In  the  state  of  a  King,  did  the  victim  go  ! 
And  Thou  who  hangest  mute  of  speech 

'Twixt  heaven  and  earth,  with  forehead  yet 
Stained  b}'  the  blood}'-  sweat, 
God  !  man  !  thou  hast  foregone  thy  throne  in  each 
Zerah:  Thine  eyes  behold  Him  ? 
Ador.  Yea,  below. 

Track  the  gazing  of  mine  eyes, 
Naming  God  within  thine  heart 
That  its  weakness  ma}'  depart 

And  the  vision  rise. 
Seest  thou  yet,  beloved  ? 


LIIE     SERATHIM.  .  9S 

Zerah.  I  see 

Be3'ond  the  city,  crosses  three, 
And  mortals  three  that  hang  thereon, 
'Ghast  and  silent  to  the  sun. 
Kound  them  blacken  and  welter  and  press 
Staring  multitudes,  whose  father 
Adam  was,  whose  brows  are  dark 
With  his  Cain's  corroded  mark, 
Who  curse  with  looks.     Na3'— let  me  ratlier 
Turn  unto  the  wilderness. 
Ador.  Turn  not.     God  dwells  with  men. 
Zerah.  Above 

He  dwells  with  angels,  and  tlie_y  love. 
Can  these  love  ?      With  the  living's  pride 
They  stare  at  those  who  die — who  hang- 
In  tlieir  sight  and  die.     They  bear  the  streak 
Of  tlie  crosses'  shadow,  black  not  wide. 
To  fall  on  their  heads,  as  it  swerves  aside 
When  the  victims'  pang 

Makes  the  dry  wood  creak. 
Ador.  The  cross^ — the  cross  1 
Zerah.  A  woman  kneels 

The  mid  cross  under. 
With  white  lips  asunder, 
And  motion  on  each. 
The}''  throb,  as  she  feels, 
With  a  spasm,  not  a  speech ; 
And  her  lids,  close  as  sleep, 
Are  less  calm,  for  the  eyes 
Have  made  room  there  to  weep 
Drop  on  drop — 
Ador.  Weep  ?     Weep  blood, 

All  women,  all  men  ! 
He  sweated  it,  He, 
For  3'our  pale  womanhood 
And  base  manhood.     Agree 
That  these  water-tears,  then. 
Are  vain,  mocking  like  laughter! 
Weep  blood  !— Shall  the  flood 
Of  salt  curses,  whose  form  is  the  darkness,  on  roll 
Forward,  on,  from  the  strand  of  the  storm-beaten 

3'ears, 
And  back  from  the  rocks  of  the  horrid  hereaftei', 
And  \ip,  in  a  coil,  from  the  present's  wralh-spring, 
Yea,  down  from  the  windows  of  heaven  opening — 


94  T  n  E      S  ER  APIII  M. 

Deep  calling  to  deep  as  they  met  on  His  soul— 
And  ineu  weep  only  tears? 
Zerah.  Little  drops  in  tlie  lapse  1 
And  yet,  Ador,  perhaps 
It  is  all  that  they  can. 
Tears  1  the  lovingest  man 
Has  no  better  bestowed 
Upon  man. 
Ador.  Nor  on  God. 

Zerah.  Do  all-givers  need  gifts  ? 
If  the  giver  said  '•  Give,"  the  first  motion  would  slay 
Our  Immortals,  the  echo  would  ruin  away 
The  same  worlds  which  He  made,  Why,  what  angel 
uplifts 

Such  a  music,  so  clear, 
It  may  seem  in  God's  ear 
Worth  more  than  a  woman's  hoarse  weeping?     And 

thus. 
Pity  tender  as  tears,  I  above  thee  would  speak, 
Thou  woman  that  weepest  1  weep  unscorned  of  us! 
I,  the  tearless  nnd  pure,  am  but  loving  and  weak. 

Ador.   Speak  low,  my  brother,  low — and  not  of  love. 
Or  liuman  or  angelic.     Rather  stand 
Before  the  throne  of  that  Supreme  above. 
In  whose  infinitude  the  secrecies 
Of  thine  own  being  lie  hid,  and  lift  thine  hand 
Exultant,  saying,  "Lord  God,  I  am  wise!" — • 
Than  utter  here  "  I  love." 

Zerah.  And  3'et  thine  e3'es 

Do  utter  it.     They  melt  in  tender  light, 
The  tears  of  heaven. 

Ador.  Of  heaven.     Ah  me ! 

Zerah.  Ador! 
Ador.  Say  on. 

Zerah.  The  crucified  are  three. 

Beloved,  they  are  unlike. 

Ador.  Unlike. 

Zerah.  For  one 

Is  as  a  man  who  has  sinned  and  still 
Doth  wear  the  wicked  will, 
The  hard  malign  life-energy. 
Tossed  outward,  in  the  pai-ting  soul's  disdain, 
On  brow  and  lip  that  catinot  ciiange  again. 
Ador.  And  one — 

Zerah.  •  Has  also  sinned. 

And  yet,  (0  marvel !)  doth  the  Spirit-wind 


THE      SERAPHIM.  9S 

Blow  white  those  waters  ? — Death  ui)oii  his  face 

Is  rather  shine  than  shade, 
A  tender  shine  by  looks  beloved  made, 
lie  seemeth  dying  in  a  quiet  place, 
And  less  by  iron  wounds  in  hands  and  feet 
Than  heart-broke  by  now  joy  too  sudden  and  sweet. 

Ador.  And  one! — 

Zerah.  And  one  ! — 

Ador.  Why  dost  thou  pause  ? 

Zerah.  God  !  God  ! 

Spirit  of  my  spirit !  who  movest 
Through  seraph  veins  in  burning  deity 
To  light  the  quenchless  pulses  ! — • 

Ador.  But  hast  trod 

The  depths  of  love  in  Thy  peculiar  nature. 
And  not  in  any  Thou  hast  made  and  lovest 
In  narrow  seraph  hearts  ! — 

Zi'.rah.  Above,  Creator ! 

Within,  Upholder ! 

Ador.  And  below,  below. 

The  creature's  and  the  upholden's  sacrifice! 

Zerah.     Wh}'  do  I  pause  ? — 

Ador.  There  is  a  silentnesp 

That  answers  thee  enow — 
That,  like  a  brazen  sound 
Excluding  others,  doth  ensheathe  us  round, — 
Hear  it  I     It  is  not  from  the  visible  skies 

Though  they  are  still. 
Unconscious  that  their  own  drooped  dews  express 
The  light  of  heaven  on  every  earthly  hill. 
It  is  not  from  the  hills,  though  calm  and  bare 

They,  since  their  first  creation, 
Through  midnight  cloud  or  morning's  glittering  air 
Or  the  deep  deluge  blindness  towards  the  place 
Whence  thrilled'  the  ni3'stic  word's  creative  grace. 
And  whence  again  shall  come 
The  word  that  uncreates. 
Have  lift  their  brows  in  voiceless  expectation. 
It  is  not  from  the  places  that  entomb 
Man's  dead — though  common  Silence  there  dilates 
Her  soul  to  grand  proportions,  worthily 
To  fiil  life's  vacant  room. 
Not  there — not  there  ! 
Not  yet  within  those  chambers  lieth  He 
\  dead  One  in  His  living  world  I  his  south 


96  THF      SEUATHIM. 

And  west  winds  blowing  over  earth  and  sea, 
And  not  a  treatli  on  that  creating  Mouth. 
But  now — a  silence  keeps 
(Not  death's,  nor  sleep's) 
The  lips  whose  whispered  word 
Might  roll  the  thunders  round  reverberated. 
Silent  art  Thou,  O  my  Lord, 
Bowing  down  th}^  stricken  head  ! 
Fearest  thou,  a  groan  of  thine 
Would  make  the  pulse  of  thy  creation  fail 
As  thine  own  pulse? — would  rend  the  veil 
Of  visible  things,  and  let  the  flood 
Of  the  unseen  Light,  the  essential  God, 
Rush  in  to  whelm  the  undivine? — 
Thy  silence,  to  my  thinking,  is  as  dread. 
Zerah.  0  silence ! 

Ador.  Doth  it  say  to  thee — the  name, 

Slow-learning  seraph  ? 

Zerah.  I  have  learnt. 

Ador.  Tiie  flame 

Perishes  in  thine  eyes. 

Zerah.  He  opened  His, 

And  looked.     I  cannot  bear — 

Ador.  Their  agon}'  ? 

Zerah.  Their  love.     God's  depth  is  in  them.     From 
his  brows 
White,  terrible  in  meekness,  didst  thou  see 

The  lifted  eyes  unclose  ? 
He  is  God,  seraph  !     Look  no  more  on  me, 
0  God — I  am  not  God. 

Ador.  The  loving  is 

Sublimed  within  them  by  the  sorrowful. 
In  Heaven  we  could  sustain  them. 

Zerah.  Heaven  is  dull, 

Mine  Ador,  to  man's  earth.     The  light  that  burns 
In  fluent,  refluent  motion 
Along  the  crj^stal  ocean  ; 
The  springing  of  the  golden  harps  between 
Tlie  bowery  wings,  in  fountains  of  sweet  sound  ; 
The  Avinding,  wandering  music  that  returns 
Upon  itself,  exultingly  self-bound 
In  the  great  spheric  round 

Of  everlasting  praises; 
The  God-thoughts  in  our  midst  that  intervene, 
Visibly  flashing  from  the  supreme  throne 
Full  in  serauhic  faces 


THE    s  E  u  A  r  n  r  M .  97 

Till  each  astonishes  tlie  other,  grown 
More  beautiful  with  worship  and  delight ! 
IMy  heaven  !  m}^  home  of  heaven  !  my  infinite 
lleaven-clioirs !  what  are  3'e  to  this  dust  and  death. 
This  cloud,  this  cold,  these  tears,  this  failing  breath. 
AVhere  God's  immortal  love  now  issueth 

In  this  man's  woe  ? 
Ador.  His  eyes  are  very  deep  3'et  calm. 
Zerah.  No  more 

On  me,  Jehovah-man — 

Ador.  Calm-deep.     They  show 

A  passion  which  is  tranquil.     They  are  seeing 
No  earth,  no  heaven,  no  men  that  slay  and  curse. 

No  seraphs  that  ndore  ; 
Their  gaze  is  on  the  invisible,  the  dread, 
The  things  we  cannot  view  or  think  or  speak, 
Because  we  are  too  happy,  or  too  weak — 
Thb  sea  of  ill,  for  which  the  universe 
With  all  its  piled  space,  can  find  no  shore, 
With  all  its  life,  no  living  foot  to  tread ! 
But  He,  accomplished  in  Jehovah-being, 

Sustains  the  gaze  adown, 

Conceives  the  vast  despair. 
And  feels  the  billowj'  griefs  come  up  to  drown, 
Nor  fears,  nor  faints,  nor  fails,  till  all  be  finished. 

Zerah.  TIius,  do  I  find  thee  thus  ?    My  undiminishe*.' 
And  undiminishable  God  ! — nij'  God  1 
The  echoes  are  still  tremulous  along 
The  heaA'enly  mountains,  of  the  latest  song 
Thy  manifested  glory  swept  abroad 
In  rushing  past  our  lips!  they  echo  aj'e 

"  Creator,  Thou  art  strong! — 
Creator,  Thou  art  blessed  over  all." 
By  what  new  utterance  shall  I  now  recall, 
Unteaching  the  heaven-echoes?  dare  I  sa^^ 
"  Creator,  Thou  art  feebler  than  th}'  work! 
Creator,  Thou  art  sadder  than  thy  creature  ! 

A  worm,  and  not  a  man, 

Yea,  no  worm,  but  a  curse  ?" — 
I  dare  not,  so,  mine  heavenly  phrase  reverse. 
Albeit  the  piercing  thorn  and  thistle-fork 

(Whose  seed  disordered  ran 
From  Eve's  hand  trembling  when  the  curse  did  reacb 

her) 
Be  garnered  darklier  in  Thy  soul,  the  rod 
9  G 


98  THE     SERAPHIM. 

That  smites  Thee  never  blossoming,  and  Thou 
Grief-bearer  for  thy  world,  with  iinlvinged  brow — 
I  leave  to  men  their  song  of  Ichabod.   . 
I  have  an  angel-tongne — I  know  but  praise. 

Ador.  Hereafter  ^shall   the    blood-bought   captives 
raise 
The  passion  song  of  blood. 

Zerah.  And  we,  extend 

Oar  holy  vacant  hands  towards  the  Throne, 
Crying  "  We  have  no  music  !" 

Ador.  Rather,  blend 

Both  musics  into  one. 
The  sanctities  and  sanctified  above 
Shall  each  to  each,  with  lifted  looks  serene. 
Their  shining  faces  lean. 
And  mix  their  adoring  breath 
And  breathe  the  full  thanksgiving. 

Zerah.  But  the  love— 

The  love,  mine  Ador  ! 

Ador.  Do  we  love  not  ? 

Zerah  Yea, 

But  not  as  man  shall !  not  with  life  for  death, 
New-throbbing  through  the  startled  being!  not 
With  strange  astonished  smiles,  that  ever  ma^^ 
Gush  passionate  like  tears  that  fill  their  place ! 
Nor  yet  with  speechless  memories  of  what 
Earth's  winters  were,  enverduring  the  green 
Of  every  heavenly  palm 
Whose  windless,  shadeless  calm 
jNIoves  only  at  the  breath  of  the  Unseen. 
Oh,  not  with  this  blood  on  us — and  this  face — • 
Still,  haply,  pale  with  sorrow  that  it  bore 
In  our  behalf,  and  tender  evermore 
With  nature  all  our  own,  upon  us  gazing! — ■ 
Nor  3^et  with  these  forgiving  hands  upraising 
Their  unreproachfnl  wounds,  alone  to  bless ! 
Alas,  Creator  !  shall  we  love  Thee  less 
Thau  mortals  shall  ? 

Ador.  Amen  !  so  let  it  be. 

We  love  in  our  proportion — to  the  bound 
Tliine  infinite  our  finite  set  around. 
And  that  is  finitel}' — Thou,  infinite 
And  worthy  infinite  love  !     And  our  delight 
Is  watching  the  dear  love  poured  out  to  Thee 
From  ever  fuller  chalice.     Blessed  thej^ 
Who  love  Thee  more  than  Ave  do  !  blessed  we. 


T  H  E      S  E  11  A  P  n  I  M  99 

Viewing  that  love  which  shall  exceed  even  this 
And  winning  in  the  sight,  a  double  bliss, 
For  all  so  lost  in  love's  supreiuucv  ! 
The  bliss  is  better.     Onl3'  on  the  sad, 

Cold  earth  there  are  who  say 
It  soemeth  better  to  be  great  than  glad. 
The  bliss  is  better.     Love  Him  more,  0  man, 
Than  sinless  seraphs  can. 

Zerah.  Yea,  love  Him  more. 

Voices  of  the  angelic  multitude.  Yea,  more. 

Is  caught  by  those  from  whom  we  stand  apart," 

For  Silence  hath  no  deepness  in  her  heart 

Where   love's  low  name  low  breathed  would  not  be 

heard 
By  angels,  clear  as  thunder. 
Angelic  voices.  Love  him  more  ! 

Ado?\  Sweet  voices,  swooning  o'er 
The  music  which  ye  make  ! 
Albeit  to  love  thei-e  were  not  ever  given 
A  mournful  sound  when  uttered  out  of  heaven 
That  angel-sadness  ye  would  fitly  take. 
Of  love  be  silent  now  I  we  gaze  adown 
Upon  the  incarnate  Love  who  wears  no  crown 
Ze7-ah.  No  crown  !  the  Avoe  instead 
Is  heavy  on  His  head, 
Pressing  inward  on  his  brain 
With  a  hot  and  clinging  pain. 
Till  all  tears  are  prest  away. 
And  clear  and  calm  his  vision  may 
Peruse  the  black  abyss. 
No  rod,  no  sceptre  is 
Holden  in  his  fingers  pale  ; 
They  close  instead  upon  the  nail, 

Concealing  the  sharp  dole — 
Never  stirring  to  put  by 

The  fair  hair  peaked  with  blood, 
Drooping  forward  from  the  rood 

Helplessly,  heavily, 
On  the  cheek  that  waxeth  colder. 
Whiter  ever— and  the  shoulder 
Where  the  government  was  laid. 
His  glory  made  the  Heavens  afraid  ; 
Will  he  not  unearth  this  cross  from  i'.s  hole? 
His  pity  makes  his  piteous  state; 
Will  he  be  uncompassionate 


100  THE     SERAPHIM. 

Alone  to  his  proper  sonl  ? 
Yea,  will  he  not  lift  up 
His  lips  from  the  bitter  cup, 
His  brows  from  the  dreary  weight, 
His  hand  from  the  clenching  cross, 
Cr3'ing,  "  My  Father,  give  to  me 
Again  the  joy  I  had  with  Thee, 
Or  ere  this  earth  was  made  for  loss  ?" — 

No  stir — no  sound  ! 
The  love  and  woe  being  inter  wound 

He  cleaveth  to  the  woe, 
And  putteth  forth  heaven's  strength  below- 
To  bear. 
Ador.  And  that  creates  his  anguish  now, 
Which  made  his  glory  there. 
Zerah.  Shall  it  indeed  be  so  ? 

Awake,  thou  Earth  !  behold  \ 
Thou,  uttered  forth  of  old 
In  all  thy  life-emotion, 
In  all  thy  vernal  noises, 
In  the  rollings  of  thine  ocean, 
Leaping  founts,  and  rivers  running— 
In  thy  woods'  jiropbetic  heaving 
Ere  the  rains  a  stroke  have  given, 
In  th}^  winds'  exultant  voices 
When  thej'  feel  the  hills  auear. 
In  the  firmamental  sunning, 
And  the  tempest  which  rejoices 
Thy  full  heart  with  an  awful  cheer  I 

Tiiou,  uttered  forth  of  old 
And  with  all  thy  music  rolled 
In  a  breath  abroad 
By  the  breathing  God — 
Awake  !     He  is  here  !  behold  ! 
Even  thou — 

beseems  it  good 
To  thy  vacant  vision  dim. 
That  the  deathly  ruin  should 
For  thy  sake  encompass  Him  ? 
That  the  Master-word  should  lie 
A  mere  silence.  While  His  OAvn 

Processive  harmony. 
The  faintest  echo  of  His  lightest  tone, 
Is  sweeping  in  a  choral  triumph  by  ? 
Awake  !  emit  a  cry  ! 
And  say,  albeit  used 


THE      SERAPHIM.  101 

From  Adam's  ancient  years 

To  falls  of  acrid  tears, 

To  frequent  sighs  unloosed, 

Caught  back  to  press  again 

On  bosoms  zoned  with  pain — 

To  corses  still  and  sullen 

The  shine  and  music  dulling 

With  closed  e^es  and  ears 

That  nothing  sweet  can  enter, 

Commoving  thee  no  less 

With  that  forced  quietness, 

Than  the  earthquake  in  thy  centre — 

Thou  hast  not  learnt  to  bear 

This  new  divine  despair  ! 

These  tears  that  sink  into  thee. 

These  dying  eyes  tliat  view  thee, 

This  dropping  blood  from  lifted  rood. 

They  darken  and  undo  thee  ! 
Thou  canst  not,  presently,  sustain  this  corso- 

Cr_v,  cry,  thou  hast  not  force  ! 

Cry,  thou  wouldst  fainer  keep 

Thy  hopeless  charnels  deep, 
•   Tliyself  a  general  tomb — 

Where  the  first  and  the  second  Death 

Sit  gazing  face  to  face 

And  mar  each  other's  breath, 
While  silent  bones  through  all  the  place, 
'Neath  sun  and  moon  do  faintly  glisten, 

And  seem  to  lie  and  listen 
For  the  tramp  of  the  coming  Doom. 

Is  it  not  meet 
That  they  who  erst  the  Eden  fruit  did  eat, 

Should  champ  the  ashes  ? 
That  they  who  wrapt  them  in  the  thunder-ck  id 

Should  wear  it  as  a  shroud, 

Perishing  by  its  flashes  ? 
That  they  who  vexed  the  lion,  should  be  rent  .' 
Cry,  crj- — "  I  will  sustain  my  punishment, 
The  sin  being  mine  !  but  take  awa}'  from  me 
This  visioned  Dread — this  Man — this  Deity." 
Tlie  Earth.  1  have  groaned — I  have  travailed — 1  ^m 
weary. 
[  am  blind  with  mine  own  grief,  and  cannot  see, 
As  clear-eyed  angels  can.  His  agony, 
And  what  I  see  1  also  can  sustain, 
r>eoause  His  power  protects  me  from  His  p.iin. 
9* 


102  THE      SERAPHIM. 

I  have  groaned — I  have  travailed — I  am  drearj, 
Harkening  the  thick  sobs  of  my  children's  heart 

How  can  I  say  "  Depart  " 
To  that  A  toner  making  calm  and  free  ? 

Am  I  a  God  as  He, 
To  la}^  down  peace  and  power  as  willingly  ? 

Ador.  He  looked  for  some  to  pit}'.     There  is  none 
All  pity  is  within  Him,  and  not  for  Him. 
His  earth  is  iron  nnder  Him,  and  o'er  Him 
His  skies  are  brass. 
His  seraphs  or}'  "  Alas  " 
With  hallelujah  voice  that  cannot  weep. 
/Vnd  man,  for  whom  the  dreadful  work  is  done — 
Scornful  voices  from  the  Earth.  If  verily  this  be  th«3 

Eternal's  son — 
Aclor.  Thou  hearest ! — man  is  grateful  ! 
Zerah.  Can  I  hear 

Nor  darken  into  man  and  cease  for  ever 
My  seraph-smile  to  wear  ? 

Was  it  for  such, 
It  pleased  Him  to  overleap 
His  glor}-  with  His  love  and  sevei' 
From  the  God-light  and  the  throne 
And  all  angels  bowing  down. 
For  whom  His  every  look  did  touch 
Kew  notes  of  jo}'  on  the  unworn  string 
Of  an  eternal  worshipping  ? 
For  such,  He  left  His  heaven  ? 
There,  though  never  bought  b}'  blood 
And  tears,  we  gave  Him  gratitude  1 
We  loved  Him  there,  though  un forgiven  i 
Ador.  The  light  is  riven 

Above,  around, 
And  down  in  lurid  fragments  flung. 
That  catch  the  mountain  peak  and  stream 

With  momentary  gleam, 
Then  perish  in  the  water  and  the  ground. 
River  and  waterfall. 
Forest  and  wilderness, 
Mountain  and  cit}^  are  together  wrung 
Into  one  shape,  and  that  is  shapelessness ; 
The  darkness  stands  for  all. 
Zerah.  The  pathos  hath  the  day  undone  : 
The  death-look  of  His  e^es 
Hath  overcome  the  sun. 
And  made  it  sicken  in  its  narrow  skies. 


T  II  E      S  E  R  A  P  II  I  >I .  1  O.i 

Aior.  Is  it  to  death?     lie  dietli. 
Zerah.  Througli  the  dark, 

He  still,  He  onl}'-,  is  discernible — 
The  naked  hands  and  feet  transfixed  stark 
I'he  countenance  of  patient  anguish  white 

Do  make  themselves  a  light 
More  dreadful  than   the  glooms  which   round    them 

dwell, 
And  therein  do  they  shine. 

Ador.  God  !  Father-God  ! 

Perpetual  Radiance  on  the  radiant  throne  ! 
Uplift  the  lids  of  inward  Deitj'-, 
Flashing  abroad 

Thy  burning  Infinite! 
Light  up  this  dark,  where  there  is  nought  to  see, 
Except  the  unimagiiied  agony 
Upon  the  sinless  forehead  of  the  Son. 

Zerah.   God,  tarry  not !     Behold  enow 
Hath  He  wandered  as  a  stranger, 
Sorrowed  as  a  victim.     Thou 

Appear  for  Him,  0  Father! 

Appear  for  Him,  Avenger! 
Appear  for  Him,  just  One,  and  hoi}-  One, 

For  He  is  holy  and  just ! 
At  once  the  darkness  and  dishonor  rather 
To  the  ragged  jaws  of  hungry  chaos  rake. 
And  hurl  aback  to  ancient  dust 
These  mortals  that  make  blasphemies 
With  their  made  breath  !  this  earth  and  skies 

That  only  grow  a  little  dim. 

Seeing  their  curse  on  Hira  1 

But  liim,  of  all  forsaken, 

Of  creature  and  of  brother, 

JsTever  wilt  Thou  forsake ! 
Th}-  living  and  Thy  loving  cannot  slacken 
Their  firm  essential  hold  upon  each  other — 
And  well  Thou  dost  remember  how  His  part 
Was  still  to  lie  upon  Th^^  breast  and  be 
Partaker  of  the  light  that  dwelt  in  Thee 

Ere  sun  or  seraph  shone  : 
And  how  wliile  silence  tremltled  round  the  throne 
Thou  counted st  by  the  beatings  of  His  heart 
The  moments  of  Thine  own  eternit}^ ! 

Awaken, 
0  right  Hand  with  the  lightnings!     Again   gather 
His  glory  to  thy  glory  !     What  estranger. 


104  THE      SERAPHIM. 

What  ill  supreme  in  evil,  can  be  thrust 
Between  the  faithful  Father  and  the  Son  ? 
Appear  for  Him,  0  Father  ! 
Appear  for  Him,  Avenger! 
Ajjpear  for  Him,  just  One,  and  holy  One, 
For  He  is  holy  and  just. 
Ado?:  Thy   face,  upturned  towards  the  throne, 
dark — 
Thou  hast  no  answer,  Zerah. 

Zerah.  No  reply, 

0  unforsaking  Father? — 

Ador.  Hark ! 

Instead  of  downward  voice,  a  cry 
Is  uttered  from  beneath. 
Zerah..  And  by  a  sharper  sound  than  death. 
Mine  immortality  is  riven. 
The  heav3^  darkness  which  doth  tent  the  sky. 
Floats  backward  as  by  a  sudden  wind — 
But  I  see  no  light  behind  ! 
But  I  feel  the  farthest  stars  are  all 
Stricken  and  shaken. 
And  I  know  a  shadow  sad  and  broad. 

Doth  fall— doth  fall 
On  our  vacant  thrones  in  heaven. 

Voice  from  the  Gross.     My  God,  my  God, 
Why  hast  Thou  me  forsaken  ? 

The  Earth.  Ah  me,   ah  me,  ah    me !  the    dreadfi' 
why ! 
My  sin  is  on  Thee,  sinless  One!     Thou  art 
God-orphaned,  for  my  burden  on  Thy  head. 
Dark  sin,  white  innocence,  endurance  dread ! 
Be  still,  within  your  shrouds,  my  buried  dead — 
Nor  work  with  this  quick  horror  round  mine  heart  ! 
Zerah.  He  hath  forsaken  Him,  I  perish — 
Ador.  Hold 

Upon  his  name  !  we  perish  not.     Of  old 
His  will — 

Zerah.  I  seek  His  will.     Seek,  seraphim  ! 
M}-  God,  m}?^  God  !  where  is  it  ?     Doth  that  curse 
Reverberate  spai'e  us,  seraph  or  universe  ? 
He  hath  forsaken  Him. 
Ador.  He  cannot  fail.  * 

Angel  Voices.  We  fjxint,  we  droop — 

Our  love  doth  tremble  like  fear. 
Voices  of  Fallen  Angels  from  the  earth.     Do  we 
prevail  ? 


THE      SERAPHIM.  105 

Or  ;,re  we  lost  ? — Hath  not  the  ill  we  did 
Been  heretofore  our  good  ? 
Is  it  not  ill  that  One,  all  sinless,  should 
Hang  heavy  wilh  all  curses  on  a  cross? 
Nalliiess,  that  cry  ! — With  huddled  faces  hid 
Within  the  empty  graves  which  men  did  scoop 
To  hold  more  damned  dead,  we  shudder  through 
AVhat  shall  exalt  us  or  undo — 
Our  triumph,  or — our  loss. 
Voice  from  the  Cross.  It  is  finished. 
Zerah.  Hark,  again  ! 

Like  a  victor,  speaks  the  Slain. 

Angel  Voices.  Finished  be  the  trembling  vain  I 
Ador.  Upward,  like  a  well-beloved  Son, 

Looketh  He,  the  orphaned  One. 
Angel  Voices.  Fiuished  is  the  mystic  pain 
Voices  of  Fallen  Angels.  His  deathly   forehead  at 
word, 
Gleameth  like  a  seraph  sword. 
Angel  Voices.  Finished  is  the  demon  reign  ! 
Ador.  His  breath,  as  living  God,  createtii, 

His  breath,  as  dying  man,  corapleteth. 
Aiigel  Voices.   Finished  work  His  hands  sustain  ! 
21ie  Earth.   In  mine  ancient  sepulchres 
Where  m^'^  kings  and  prophets  freeze, 
Adam  dead  four  thousand  years, 
Un wakened  by  the  universe's 
Everlasting  moan, 
A\Q  his  ghastly  silence,  mocking — 
Unwakened  by  his  children's  knocking 
At  his  old  sepulchral  stone, 

"  Adam,  Adam,  all  this  curse  is 
Thine  and  on  us  yet !" — 
Unwakened  b}'  the  ceaseless  tears 
Wherewith  thej'^  made  his  cerement  wet, 

"Adam,  must  thy  curse  remain  ?" — 
Starts  with  sudden  life,  and  hears 
Through  the  slow  dripping  of  the  caverned  eaves — 
Angel  Voices.  Finished  is  his  bane  ! 
Voice  from  the  Gro.-'s.  Father!  my  spirit  to  tiijnh 

hands  is  given  ! 
Ador.  Hear  the  wailing  winds  that  be 
By  wings  of  unclean  spirits  made  ! 
They,  in  that  last  look,  surveyed 
The  love  the_y  lost  in  losing  heaven, 
And  passionately  flee — 


106  THE     SERAPHIM. 

With  a  desolate  ciy  that  cleaves 
The  natural  storms — though  they  are  lifting 
God's  strong  cedar-roots  lilie  leaves, 
And  the  earthquake  and  the  thunder, 
Neither  keeping  neither  under, 
Ivoar  and  hurtle  through  the  glooms  ! — 
And  a  few  pale  stars  are  drifting 
Past  the  Dark,  to  disappear. 
What  time,  from  the  splitting  tombs, 
Gleamingly  the  Dead  arise. 
Viewing  with  their  death-calmed  eyes 
The  elemental  strategies, 
To  ^witness,  Yictory  is  the  Lord's. 
Hear  the  wail  o'  the  spirits  !  hear. 
Zerah.  I  hear  alone  the  memory  of  His  words. 

EPILOGUE. 

M}^  song  is  done. 
My  voice  that  long  hath  faltered,  shall  be  still. 
The  mystic  darkness  drops  from  Calvary's  hill 
Into  the  common  light  of  this  day's  sun. 

I  see  no  more  Thy  cross,  0  hol}'^  Slain  ! 
I  hear  no  more  the  horror  and  the  coil 

Of  the  great  world's  turmoil 
Feeling  th3'^  countenance  too  still — nor  3'ell 
Of  demons  sweeping  past  it  to  their  prison. 
The  sides,  that  turned  to  darkness  with  Th}'  pain 

Make  now  a  summer's  da}'^ — 
And  on  my  changed  ear,  that  sabbath-bell 
Records  how  Christ  is  risen. 

And  I — ah  !  what  am  I 
To  counterfeit,  with  faculty  earth-darkenecl, 

Seraphic  brows  of  light 
And  serapli  language  never  used  nor  barkened? 
Ah  me!  what  word  that  seraphs  say,  could  come 
From  mouth  so  used  to  sighs — so  soon  to  lie 
Sighless,  because  then  breathless,  in  the  tomb  ? 

Bright  ministers  of  God  and  grace  ! — of  grace 

Because  of  God! — whether  ye  bow  adown 

In  3'our  own  heaven,  before  the  living  face 

Of  Him  who  died,  and  deathless  wears  the  crown- 

Or  whether  at  this  hour,  ye  hapl}-  are 

Anear,  around  me,  hiding  in  the  night 

Of  this  permitted  ignorance  3'our  light, 


T  II  E      SERAPHIM.  lOt 

This  feebleness  to  spare — 
Forgive  nie,  that  mine  earthly  heart  should  dare 
Shape  images  of  uiiincarnate  spirits, 
And  lay  upon  their  burning  lips  a  thought 
Cold  with  the  weeping  which  mine  earth  inherits. 
And  though  ye  lind  in  such  hoarse  music  wrought 
To  cop3'  yours,  a  cadeiiec  all  the  while 
Of  sin  and  sorrow — onl^'^  pitying  smile  ! — 

Ye  know  to  pit^',  well. 

/  too  may  haply  smile  another  da}^ 
At  the  far  recollection  of  this  lay. 
When  God  ma}'  call  me  in  your  midst  to  dwell. 
To  hear  3'our  most  sweet  music's  miracle 
And  see  ^'our  wondrous  faces.     May  it  be  ! 
For  His  remembered  sake,  the  Slain  on  rood, 
Who  rolled  his  earthl}'  garment  red  in  blood 
(Treading  the  wine-press)  that  the  weak,  like  me, 
liefore  his  heavenly  throne  should  walk  in  white. 


PROMETHEUS  BOUND. 


PERSONS  OF  THE  DRAMA. 
Prometheus.  Hephaestus. 

OcEA.NUS.  lo,  daughter  of  Inachus. 

Hekmes.  Strength  and  Force. 

Chorus  of  Ocean  Nymphs. 


Scene. — Strength  and  Force,  HEPHyESTUs  and  Prometheus,  at  (hi 
Rocks. 

Strength.  We  reach  the  utmost  limit  of  the  earth, 
The  Scythian  track,  the  desert  Avithoiit  man, 
And  now,  Hephaestus,  thou  iiiust  needs  fulfil 
The  mandate  of  our  Father,  and  with  links 
Indissoluble  of  adamantine  chains, 
Fasten  against  this  beetling  precipice 
This  guilty  god.     Because  he  filched  away 
Thine  own  bright  flower,  the  glory  of  plastic  fire. 
And  gifted  mortals  with  it — such  a  sin 
It  doth  behove  he  expiate  to  the  gods. 
Learning  to  accept  the  empei'y  of  Zeus 
And  leave  off  his  old  trick  of  loving  man, 

HepJi aestiis.   0    Strength   and    Force — for  you,  oui 
Zeus's  will 
Presents  a  deed  for  doing,  no  more ! — but  /, 
I  lack  your  daring,  up  tills  storm-reut  chasm 
To  fix  Avith  violent  hands  a  kindred  god — 
Howbeit  necessit}"^  compels  me  so 
That  jL  must  dare  it — and  our  Zeus  commands 
"With  a  most  inevitable  word.     Ho,  thou! 
High-thoughted  son  of  Themis  who  is  sage  ! 
Thee  loth,  I  loth  must  rivet  fast  in  chains 
Against  this  rocky  height  unclomb  bj''  man, 
Where  never  human  voice  nor  face  shall  find 
Out  thee  who  lov'st  them,  and  th3'  beauty's  flower, 
Scorched  in  the  sun's  clear  heat,  shall  fade  away. 
Kight  shall  come  up  with  garniture  of  stars 
To  comfort  thee  with  shadow,  and  the  suu 
108 


PROMETHEUS      BOUNDLr'-  109 

Disperse  with  letriekt  beams  the  morning-fVosts. 
lUit  through  all  changes,  sense  of  present  woe 
Shall  vex  thee  sore,  because  with  none  of  them 
There  comes  a  hand  to  free.     Such  fruit  is  plucked 
Fiom  love  of  man  ! — and  in  that  thou,  a  god, 
Didst  brave  the  w-rath  of  gods  and  give  away 
Undue  respect  to  mortals,  for  that  crime 
Thou  art  adjudged  to  guard  this  joyless  rock, 
Erect,  unshimbering,  bending  not  the  knee, 
And  many  a  cr}'  and  unavailing  moan 
To  utter  on  the  nir.     For  Zeus  is  stern, 
And  new-made  kings  are  cruel. 

Streng/I).  Be  it  so. 

Why  loiter  in  vain  pity  ?     Why  not  hate 
A  god  the  gods  hate  ? — one  too  who  betrayed 
Thr  glory  unto  men  ? 

lie ph  septus.  An  awful  thing- 

Is  kinship  joined  to  friendsiiip. 

Strength.  Grant  it  be  ; 

Is  disobedience  to  the  Father's  word 
A  possible  thing?     Dost  quail  not  more  for  thnty 

Ileph assfiis.  Thou,  at  least,    art  a  stern    one!  evsf 
bold. 

Strength.  Why,  if  I  wept,  it  were  no  remedy. 
And  do  not  tJiou  spend  labor  on  the  air 
To  bootless  uses. 

Ilephxstvs.  Cursed  handicraft ! 

I  curse  and  hate  thee,  0  my  craft  ! 

Strength.  Why  hate 

Thy  craft  most  plainly  innocent  of  all 
These '|:)ending  ills? 

Hephsestus.  I  woiild  some  other  hand 

Were  here  to  work  it ! 

Strength.  All  work  hath  its  pain. 

Except  to  rule  the  gods.     There  is  none  free 
Except  King  Zeus. 

HephseMus.  I  know  it  ver}'  well  : 

I  argue  not  against  it. 

Strength.  Wh}'  not,  then,  ) 

.Make  haste  and  lock  the  fetters  over  iiiM, 
licst  Zeus  behold  thee  lairuiiis:  ? 

Hephaedxis.  !..„,  c  mo  chains 

Zens  may  behof<i  these. 

Strength.     _  Seize  him — strike  amain, 

:rike  with  yje  hamme 
Rivet  him  to  the  rock. 

10 


110  P  K  0  M  E  T  II  E  U  S      BOUND. 

H°plisedu!<.  The  work  is  done, 

And  thoroughly  done. 

Strevglh.  Still  faster  o-i-apple  him — 

Wedge  him  in  deeper — leave  no  inch  to  stir  ! 
He's  terrible  for  finding  a  way  out 
From  the  irremediable. 

Hephsestus.  Here's  an  arm,  at  least, 

Grappled  past  freeing. 

Strength.  Now,  then,  buckle  me 

The  other  securely.     Let  this  wise  one  learn 
He's  duller  than  our  Zeus. 

HpplisestuH.  Oh,  none  but  he 

Accuse  me  justl}- 1 

Strength.  Now,  straight  through  the  c  lest, 

Take  him  and  bite  him  with  the  clenching  tooth. 
Of  the  adamantine  wedge,  and  rivet  him. 

Hephsestus.  Alas,   Prometheus,  what  thou  srifferest 
here 
I  sorrow  over. 

Strength.  Dost  thou  flinch  again, 

And  breathe  groans  for  the  enemies  of  Zeus  ? 
Beware  lest  thine  own  pit}-  find  thee  out. 

Hephsedus.  Thou  dost  behold  a  spectacle  that  turna 
The  sight  o'  the  eyes  to  pitj'. 

Strength.  I  behold 

A  sinner  suffer  his  sin's  penalty. 
But  lash  the  thongs  about  his  sides. 

Hephsestus.  So  much, 

I  must  do.     Urge  no  farther  than  I  must. 

Strength.  Ay,  but  I  xcill  urge  ! — and,  with  shout  on 
shout, 
Will  hound  thee  at  this  quarry.     Get  thee  down 
And  ring  amain  the  iron  round  his  legs. 

HephiKstus.  That  work  was  not  long  doing. 

Strength.  Heavily  now 

Let  fall  the  strokes  upon  the  perforant  gyves. 
For  He  who  rates  the  \vork  has  a  heavj^  hand. 

Hephf£dus.  Thy  speech  is  savage  as  thj-  shape. 

StncngtJt.  '  Be  th'n; 

Gentle  and  tender!  but  revile  not  me 
For  the  firm  will  and  the  untruckling  hate. 

Hephsestus.  I^t  ns -^o.     He  is  netted  round  Avith 
chains. 

Strength.  Here,  now,  taunt  on!  and  having  spoiled 
the  gods  % 

Of  honors,  crown  withal  thy  mortal  med  ^ 

,11   ' 


PROMETHEUS      BOUND.  H] 

Who  live  a  whole  day  out.     Why  how  could  they 
Draw  off  from  thee  one  single  of  thy  griefs  ? 
Mothinks  the  Demons  gave  thee  a  wrong  name, 
Fromeiheus,  which  means  Providence — because 
Thou  dost  thyself  need  i)rovidence  to  see 
Thy  roll  and  ruin  from  the  top  of  doom. 

rromelheuH  (alone).  0  holy  yEther,  and  swift  winged 
Winds, 
And  River-wells,  and  laughter  innumerous 
Of  3on  sea-waves!     Earth,  mother  of  us  all, 
And  all-viewing  cyclic  Sun,  I  cry  on  you — 
IJehold  me  a  god,  what  I  endure  from  gods  I 
Behold,  with  throe  on  throe. 
How,  wasted  b}'  this  woe, 
I  wrestle  down  the  myriad  years  of  time! 

Behold,  liow  fast  around  me, 
The  new  King  of  tlie  happy  ones  sublime 
Has  flunu:  the  chain  he  forged,  has  shamed  and  bound 

me  ! 
Woe,  woe  !  to-day's  woe  and  the  coming  morrow's, 
I  cover  with  one  groan.     And  where  is  found  me 

A  limit  to  these  sorrows  ? 
And  3'et  wliat  word  do  1  say  ?     I  have  foreknow  u 
Clearl}'  all  things  that  should  be  ;  nothing  dcme 
Comes  sudden  to  my  soul — and  I  must  bear 
What  is  ordained  with  patience,-  being  aware 
Necessity  doth  'front  the  universe 
With  an  invincible  gesture.     Yet  this  curse 
Which  strikes  me  now,  1  lind  it  hard  to  brave 
In  silence  or  in  speech.     Because  I  gave 
Honor  to  mortals,  T  h'ave  A'oked  my  soul 
To  this  compelling  fate.     Because  I  stole 
The  secret  fount  of  fire,  whose  bubbles  went 
Over  the  fei'ule's  brim,  and  manward  sent 
Arl,'s  might}'  means  and  perfect  rudiment, 
That  sin  I  expiate  in  this  agony,     ' 
Hung  here  in  fetters,  'neath  the  blanching  skj'. 
Ah,  ah  rfie  !  what  a  sound, 
What  a  fragrance  sweeps  up  from  a  pinion  unseen 
Of  a  god,  or  a  mortal,  or  nature  between. 
Sweeping  up  to  this  rock  where  the  earth    has    her 

bound. 
To  have  sight  of  my  pangs,  or  some  guerdon  obtain^ 
Lo,  a  god  in  the  anguish,  a  god  in  the  chain  ! 
The  god,  Zeus  hateth  sore 
And  his-gods  hate  again. 


112  PROMETHEUS      BOUND. 

As  man/^'  as  tread  on  his  glorified  floor, 
Because  I  loved  mortals  too  much  evermore. 
Alas  me  !  what  a  murmur  and  motion  1  hear, 

As  of  birds  flying  near  ! 

And  the  air  undersings 

The  light  stroke  of  their  wings — 
And  all  life  that  approaches  I  wait  for  in  fear 
Chorus  of  sea  iiymphs,  1st  strophe. 

Fear  nothing  !  our  troop 

Floats  lovingly  up 

With  a  quick-oaring  stroke 

Of  wings  steered  to  the  rock, 
Having  softened  the  soul  of  our  father  below  ! 
For  the  gales  of  swift-bearing  have  sent  me  a  sounds 
And  the  clank  of  the  iron,  the  malleted  blow, 

Smote  down  the  profound 

Of  my  caverns  of  old, 
And  struck  the  red  light  in  a  blush  from  my  brow- 
Till  I  sprang  up  unsandalled,  in  haste  to  behold, 
And  rushed  forth  on. my  chariot  of  wings  manifold. 

Prometheus.  Alas  me  ! — alas  me  ! 
Ye  oflTspring  of  Tethys  who  bore  at  her  breast 
'Many  children,  and  eke  of  Oceanus — he, 
Coiling  still  around  earth  with  perpetual  unrest ! 
Behold  me  and  see 
How  transfixed  with  the  fang 
Of  a  fetter  1  hang 
On  the  high-jutting  rocks  of  tliis  fissure,  and  keep 
An  uncoveted  watch  o'er  the  world  aud  the  deep. 

Chorus,   1st  antistrophe. 
I  behold  thee,  Prometheus — yet  now,  yet  now, 
A  terrible  cloud  whose  rain  is  tears 
Sweeps  over  mine  ej'cs  that  witness  how 

Thy  body  appears 
Hung  awaste  on  the  rocks  by  infrangible  chains  I 
For  new  is  the  Hand  and  the  rudder  that  steers 
The  ship  of  Olympus  through  surge  and  wind — • 
Aud  of  old  things  passed,  no  track  is  behind. 

Prometheus.  Under  earth,  under  Hades 

Where  the  home  of  the  shade  is. 
All  into  the  deep,  deep  Tartarus, 
I  would  he  had  hurled  me  adown  ! 
I  would  he  had  plunged  me,  fastened  thus 
In  the  knotted  chain  with  the  savage  clang, 
All  into  the  dark,  where  there  should  be  none. 


PROMETHEUS      BOUND.  1!3 

Jseither  god  nor  another,  to  laugh  and  see  ! 

But  now  the  winds  sing  through  and  shake 
The  hurtling  chains  wherein  I  liang — 
And  I,  in  my  naked  sorrows,  make 
Much  mirth  for  ni}'  enemy. 

Chorus,  'id  strophe. 
Nay !  who  of  the  gods  hath  a  heart  so  stern 
As  to  use  thy  woe  for  a  mock  and  mirth  ? 
Who  would  not  turn  more  mild  to  learn 

Thy  sorrows  ?  who,  of  the  heaven  and  earth, 
Save  Zeus  ?     But  he 
Right  wrathfully 
Bears  on  his  sceptral  soul  unbent, 
And  rules  thereby  the  heavenly  seed, 
Nor  will  he  pause  till  he  content 
His  thirst3^  heart  in  a  finished  deed; 
Or  till  another  shall  appear, 
To  win  by  fraud,  to  seize  by  fear 
The  hard-to-be-captured  government. 

Prometheus.  Yet  even  of  me  he  shall  have  need. 
That  monarch  of  the  blessed  seed, 
Of  me,  of  me,  who  now  am  cursed 

By  his  fetters  dire — 
To  wring  ni}^  secret  out  withal 

And  learn  by  whom  his  sceptre  shall 
Be  filched  from  him — as  was,  at  first. 
His  heavenly  fire. 
But  he  never  shall  enchant  me 

With  his  honey-lipped  persuasion  I 
Never,  never  shall  he  daunt  me 

With  the  oath  and  threat  of  passion. 
Into  speaking  as  thej'^  want  me, 
Till  he  loose  this  sav~age  chain, 

And  accept  the  expiation 
Of  my  sorrow,  in  his  pain. 

Chorus,  2d  antistrophe. 
Thou  art,  sooth,  a  brave  god. 

And,  for  all  thou  hast  borne 
From  the  stroke  of  the  rod. 

Nought  relaxest  from  scorn  1 
But  thou  speakest  unto  me 

Too  free  and  unworn  ; 
And  a  terror  strikes  through  me 

And  festers  in  my  soul 

And  I  fear,  in  the  roll 
H 


1 14  PROMETHEUS      BOUND. 

Of  the  storm,  for  thy  fate 

In  the  ship  far  from  shore ! 
Since  the  son  of  Saturnius  is  hard  in  his  hate 

And  unmoved  in  his  heart  evermore. 

rromrfhcus.  I  know  that  Zeus  is  stern, 
I  know  he  metes  his  justice  b3^  his  will. 
And  3'et,  his  soul  shall  learn 

More  softness  when  once  broken  bj^  this  ill 

And  curbing  his  unconquerable  vaunt 
He  shall  rush  on  in  fear  to  meet  with  me 
^Vho  rush  to  meet  with  him  in  agony, 
To  issues  of  harmonious  covenant. 

CJwrus.  Remove  the  veil  from  all  things  and  relate 
The  story  to  us — of  what  crime  accused, 
Zeus  smites  thee  with  dishonorable  pangs. 
Speak !  if  to  teach  us  do  not  grieve  thyself. 

Prometheufi.  The  utterance  of  these  things  is  torture 
to  me. 
But  so,  too,  is  their  silence  !  each  wa}^  lies 
Woe  strong  as  fate. 

When  gods  began  with  wraths 
And  war  rose  up  between  their  starry  brows. 
Some  choosing  to  cast  Chronos  from  his  throne 
That  Zeus  might  king  it  there,  and  some  in  haste 
With  opposite  oaths  that  the}^  would  have  no  Zeus 
To  rule  the  gods  foi-  ever — I,  who  brought 
The  counsel  I  thought  meetest,  could  not  move 
The  Titans,  children  of  the  Heaven  and  Earth, 
What  time,  disdaining  in  their  rugged  souls 
My  subtle  machinations  they  assumed 
It  was  an  easj-  thing  for  force  to  take 
The  mastery  of  fate.     My  mother,  then. 
Who  is  called  not  on]y  Themis  but  Earth  too, 
(Her  single  beauty  joys  in  man}^  names) 
Did  teach  me  with  reiterant  prophecy 
AYliat  future  should  be — and  how  conquerino-  oods 
Should  not  prevail  b}'  strength  and  violence, 
]3ut  b\-  guile  onl}-.     When  I  told  them  so, 
The}'  would  not  deign  to  comtemplate  the  truth 
On  all  sides  rounci— whereat  I  deemed  it  best 
To  lead  my  willing  mother  upwardly, 
And  set  my  Themis  face  to  face  with  Zeus 
As  willing  to  receive  her.     Tartai'us, 
Witli  its  ab3-sm.ni  cloister  of  the  Dark, 
Because  I  gave  that  counsel,  covers  up 


PROMP^TIIEUS      BOUND.  115 

The  antique  Chronos  and  his  siding  hosts, 

And,  by  that  counsel    helped,  the  king  of  gods 

Hath  recompensed  me  with  these  bitter  pangs'! 

!'or  kingship  wears  a  cancer  at  the  heart — 

Distrust  in  iViendsliip.  /Do  ye  also  ask, 

Wliat  crime  it  is  lor  whicli  he  tortures  ine — 

That  shall  be  clear  before  you.     AVhen  at  first 

lie  filled  his  father's  throne,  he  instantly 

Made  various  gifts  of  glorj'^  to  the  gods. 

And  de-.ilt  the  empire  out.     Alone  of  men, 

Of  miserable  men,  he  took  no  count, 

But  yearned  to  sweep  their  traOk  off  from  the  world 

And  plant  a  newer  race  there.     Not  a  god 

Resisted  such  desire  except  myself! 

/  dared  it  1     I  drew  mortals  back  to  light, 

From  meditated  ruin  deep  as  hell! 

For  which  wrong,  I  am  bent  down  in  these  pangs 

Dreadful  to  suffer,  mournful  to  behold — 

And  I,  who  pitied  inan,  am  thought  myself 

Un worth}'  of  pity — while  I  render  out 

Deep  rhythms  of  anguish  'neath  the  harping-  hand 

That  strikes  me  thus  ! — a  sight  to  shame  your  Zeus  ! 

Chorus.  Hard  as  thy  chains,  and  cold  as  all  these 
rocks. 
Is  he,  Prometheus,  who  withholds  his  heart 
From  joining  in  th}^  woe.     I  yearned  before 
To  fly  this  sight — and,  now  I  gaze  on  it, 
1  sicken  inwards. 

Frometheuii.         To  my  friends,  indeed, 
I  must  be  a  sad  sight. 

Chorum.  And  didst  thou  sin 

Xo  more  than  so  ? 

Frometheus.  I  did  restrain  besides 

My  mortals  from  premeditating  death. 

Chorus.   IIow  didst  thou  medicine  the  plague-fear  of 
death  ? 

Promelhexis.   I  set  blind  Hopes  to  inhabit  in  their 
house. 

Chorus.  By  that  gift,  thou  didst  help  thy  mortals 
well. 

Fromtlheus.     I  gave  them  also — fire. 

Chorus.  And  have  the}'  now, 

Those  creatures  of  a  da}',  the  red-eyed  fire? 

Fromelheus.    They   have  1    and    shall  learn    by    it, 
many  arts. 

Chorus.  And,  truly,  for  such  sins  Zens  tortures  thee, 


il6  PROMETHEUS     UOUNT). 

And  will  remit  no  anguish  ?     Is  there  set 
No  limit  before  thee  to  thine  agony  ? 

Prometheus.  No  other !  only  what  seems  good  to  ihm 

Chorus.  And  how  will  it  seem  good  ?    what  hope 
remains  ? 
Seest  thou  not  that  thou  hast  sinned  ?     But  th:it  thou 

hast  sinned 
It  glads  me  not  to  speak  of,  and  grieves  thee — 
Then  let  it  pass  from  both  !  and  seek  thyself 
Some  outlet  from  distress. 

Prometheus.  It  is  in  truth 

An  easy  thing  to  stand  aloof  from  pain 
And  lavish  exhortation  and  advice 
On  one  vexed  sorely  by  it.     I  have  known 
All  in  prevision.     By  my  choice,  my  choice, 
I  freel}-  sinned — I  will  confess  m}'  sin — 
And  helping  mortals,  found  mine  own  despair. 
I  did  not  think  indeed  that  I  should  pine 
Beneath  such  pangs  against  such  skiey  rocks, 
Doomed  to  this  drear  hill  and  no  neighboring 
Of  aii}^  life ! — but  mourn  not  ye  for  griefs 
I  bear  to-day  ! — hear  rather,  dropping  down 
To  the  plain,  how  other  woes  creep  on  to  me, 
And  learn  the  consummation  of  my  doom. 
Beseech  you,  nymphs,  beseech  3'ou,  grieve  for  me 
Who  now  am  grieving ! — for  Grief  ^\'alks  the  earth 
And  sits  down  at  the  foot  of  each  by  turns. 

Chorus.   We  hear  the  deep  clash  of  thy  words, 
Prometheus,  and  obey  ! 

And  I  spring  with  a  rapid  foot  away 

From  the  rushing  car  and  the  hol}^  air, 
The  track  of  birds — 

And  I  drop  to  the  rugged  ground  and  there 
Await  the  tale  of  thy  despair. 

E)ite7-  OcEANUS. 

Oceanus.  I  reach  the  bourne  of  m3'  wearj-  road 

Where  I  may  see  and  answer  thee, 

Prometheus,  in  thine  agon}' ! 
On  the  back  of  the  quick-winged  bird  I  glodc 

And  I  bridled  him  in 

With  the  will  of  a  god  ! 
Behold,  th}'  sorrow  aches  in  me. 

Constrained  by  the  force  of  kin. 
Na}',  though  that  tie  were  all  undone, 
For  the  life  of  none  beneath  the  sun, 


PROMETHEUS      BOUND, 


111 


Would  I  seek  a  larger  bcnison 
Than  I  seek  l(n'  thine  ! 

And  tliou  slialt  learu  my  words  are  truth — 

Tliat  no  fair  parlance  ofthe  mouth 
Grows  falsely  out  of  mine. 

Now  give  me  a  deed  to  prove  m3^  faith — ■ 

For  no  faster  friend  is  named  in  breath 
Than  I,  Oceanus,  am  thine. 

Promclheuii.    Ha!    what   has  brought  thee?     Tlasi 
thou  also  come 
To  look  upon  m^-  woe  ?     How  hast  thou  dared 
To  leave  the  depths  called  after  thee,  the  caves 
Self-hewn  and  self-roofed  with  spontaneous  rock, 
To  visit  earth,  the  mother  of  m}'  chain? 
Hast  come  indeed  to  view  ni}'  doom  and  mourn 
That  I  should  soi-row  thus?     Gaze  on,  and  see 
How  I,  the  fast  friend  of  your  Zeus — how  I 
The  erector  of  the  empire  in  his  hand- 
Am  bent  beneath  that  hand,  in  this  despair! 

Oceanus.  Prometheus,  I  behold — and  1  would  fain 
Exhort  thee,  though  alread}'^  subtle  enough, 
To  a  better  wisdom.     Titan,  know  thyself, 
And  take  new  sol'tucss  to  thy  manners  since 
A  new  kiug  rules  the  gods.      If  words  like  these, 
Harsh  words  and  trenchant,  thou  wilt  fling  abroad, 
Zeus  haply,  though  he  sit  so  far  and  high, 
May  hear  thee  do  it.  and,  so,  this  wrath  of  his 
"Which  now  affects  thee  fiercely,  shall  appear 
A  mere  child's  sport  at  A^engeance.     "\V' retched  god. 
Rather  dismiss  the  passion  which  thou  hast, 
And  seek  a  change  from  grief.     Perhaps  I  seem 
To  address  thee  with  old  saws  and  outw^orn  sense — 
Yet  such  a  curse,  Prometheus,  surely  waits 
On  lips  that  speak  too  proudly! — thou  meantime. 
Art  none  the  meeker,  nor  dost  yield  a  jot 
To  evil  circumstances,  preparing  still 
To  well  the  account  of  grief  with  other  griefs 
Than  what  are  l)orne.     Beseech  thee,  use  me  then 
For  counsel !  do  not  spurn  against  the  pricks- 
Seeing  that  who  reigns,  reigns  by  cruelty 
Instead  f)f  right.      And  now,  I  go  from  hence, 
And  will  endeavor  if  a  power  of  mine 
Can  break  thy  fetters  through.     For  thee — be  calm, 
And  smooth  thy  words  from  passion.  Knowest  tliou  not 
Of  perfect  knowledge,  thou  who  knowest  too  much. 
That  where  the  tongue  wags,  ruin  never  lags? 


118  PROMETHEUS     BOUND 

Prometheus.  I  gratulate  thee  who  hast  shared  and 
dared 
All  things  with  me,  except  their  penalty! 
Enough  so  !  leave  these  thoughts.     It  cannot  be 
'i'hat  thou  shouldst  move  Him.    He  may  not  be  moved  i 
And  thou,  beware  of  sorrow  on  this  road. 

Oceanu.<.  Ay  !  ever  wiser  for  another's  use 
Than  thine !  the  event,  and  not  the  prophecy, 
Attests  it  to  me.     Yet  where  now  I  rush, 
Thy  wisdom  hath  no  power  to  drag  me  back ; 
Because  I  glory,  glor}',  to  go  hence 
And  win  for  thee  deliverance  from  th}'  pangs, 
As  a  free  gift  from  Zeus. 

Promethe^is  Why  there,  again, 

I  give  thee  gratulation  and  applause ! 
Thou  lackest  no  goodwill.     But,  as  for  deeds. 
Do  nought !  'twere  all  done  vainly ;  heli)ing  nought, 
Whatever  thou  wouldst  do.     Rather  take  rest. 
And  keep  thyself  from  evil.     If  I  grieve, 
I  do  not  therefore  wish  to  multiply  . 
The  griefs  of  others.     Veril_y,  not  so  ! 
For  still  my  brother's  doom  doth  vex  my' soul — 
My  brother  Atlas,  standing  in  the  west, 
Shouldering  the  column  of  the  heaven  and  earth, 
A  difficult  burden !     I  have  also  seen, 
And  pitied  as  I  saw,  the  earth-boi-n  one, 
The  inhabitant  of  old  Cilician  caves, 
The  great  war-monster  of  the  hundred  heads, 
(All  taken  and  bowed  beneath  the  violent  Hand), 
T^'phon  the  fierce,  who  did  resist  the  gods, 
And,  hissing  slaughter  from  his  dreadful  jaws, 
Flash  out  ferocious  glory  from  his  eyes. 
As  if  to  storm  the  throne  of  Zeus  !     Whereat, 
The  sleepless  arrow  of  Zeus  flew  straight  at  him— 
The  headlong  bolt  of  thunder  breathing  flame,. 
And  struck  him  downward  from  his  eminence 
Of  exultation!     Through  the  VQvy  soul, 
It  struck  him,  and  his  strength  was  withered  up 
To  ashes,  thunder-blasted.     Now,  he  lies 
A  helpless  trunk  supiuel}',  at  full  length 
Beside  the  strait  of  ocean,  sjjurred  into 
By  roots  of  ^tna — high  upon  whose  tops 
Hephaestus  sits  and  strikes  the  flashing  oie. 
From  thence  the  rivers  of  fire  shall  burst  away 
Hereafter,  and  devour  with  savage  jaws 
The  equal  plains  of  fruitful  Sicily, 


iMio  M  KT  ir  K  t;  s    no  UN  I).  iij. 

Such  passion  be  shall  boil  back  in  hot  darts 

or  an  insatiate  fury  and  sough  of  flame, 

Fallen  Typhon  — howsoever  struck  and  charred 

By  Zeus's  bolted  thunder !     But  for  thee, 

Thou  art  not  so  nnlearned  as  to  need 

My  teaching — let  thy  knowledge  save  thyself. 

/  quaff  the  full  cup  of  a  present  doom 

And  wait  till  Zeus  hath  quenched  his  will  in  wrath. 

Oceavus.   Prometheus,  art  thou  ignorant  of  this, 
That  words  do  medicine  anaer? 

Prometheus.  ^        If  the  word 

With  seasonable  softness  touch  the  soul. 
And,  where  the  parts  are  ulcerous,  scar  them  not 
By  any  rudeness. 

Ocemrus.  With  a  noble  aim 

To  dare  as  nobly — is  there  harm  in  that? 
Dost  thou  discern  it?     Teach  me. 

Prometheus.  I  discern 

Vain  aspiration — unresultive  work. 

Oceanus.  Then  suffer  me  to  bear  the  brunt  of  this  ! 
Since  it  is  profitable  that  one  Avho  is  wise 
Should  seem  not  wise  at  all. 

Prometheus  And  such  would  seem 

My  very  crime. 

Oceanus.  In  trutii  thine  argument 

Sends  me  back  home. 

Prometheus.  Lest  any  lament  from  me 

Should  cast  thee  down  to  hate. 

Oceanus.  The  hate  of  Him, 

Who  sits  a  new  king  on  the  absolute  throne  ? 

Prometheus.   Beware  of  him — lest  thine  heart  grieve 
by  him. 

Oceanus.  Thy  doom,  Prometheus,  be  my  teacher ! 

Prometheus.  Go! 

Depart — beware  ! — and  keep  the  mind  thou  hast. 

Oceanus.  Thy  words  drive  after,  ils  I  rush  before — 
Lo  I  my  four-footed  Bird  sweeps  smooth  and  wide 
The  flats  of  air  with  balanced  pinions,  glad 
To  bend  his  knee  at  home  in  the  ocean-stall. 

Exil    OCEAXUS. 

Chorus,  1st  strojjhe. 
I  moan  thy  fate,  I  moan  for  thee, 

Prometheus  !     From  my  eyes  too  tender, 
Drop  after  drop  Incessantl}^ 

The  tears  of  my  heart's  pit}'  render 
My  cheeks  wet  from  their  fountains  free — 


120  PROMETHEUS     BOUND. 

Because  that  Zeus,  the  stern  and  cold, 
Whose  law  is  taken  from  his  breast, 
Uplifts  his  sceptre  manifest 
Over  the  gods  of  old. 

l.s'^  antUtrophe. 

All  the  land  is  moaning 
With  a  murmured  plaint  to-day. 

All  the  mortal  nations, 

Having  habitations 
In  the  holy  Asia, 

Are  a  dirge  entoning 
For  thine  honor  and  thy  brother's, 
Once  majestic  bevond  others 

In  the  old  belief— 
Now  are  groaning  in  the  groaning 

Of  thy  deep- voiced  giief. 

'  2d  i^ti-ophe. 

Mourn  the  maids  inhabitant 

Of  the  Colchian  land, 
Who  with  white,  calm  bosoms,  stand 

In  the  battle's  roar  ! 
Mourn  the  Scythian  tribes  that  haunt 
The  verge  of  earth,  Mseotis'  shore. 

2d  antistrophe. 
Yea  !  Arabia's  battle  crown, 
And  dwellers  in  the  beetling  town 
Mount  Caucasus  sublimely  nears — ■ 
An  iron  squadron,  thundering  down 
With  the  sharp-prowed  spears. 

But  one  other  before,  have  I  seen  to  remain, 
Bj^  invincible  pain 
Bound  and  vanquished — one  Titan  ! — 'twas  Atlas,  whc 

bears 
In  a  curse  from  the  gods,  by  that  strength  of  his  own 

Which  he  evermore  wears, 
The  weight  of  the  heaven  on  his  shoulder  alone. 

While  he  siglis  up  the  stars  ! 
And  the  tides  of  the  ocean  wail  bursting  their  bars — 

Murmurs  still  the  profound — 
And  black  Hades  roars  up  through  the  chasm  of  the 

ground — 
And  the  fountains  of  pure-running  rivers  moan  low 
In  a  pathos  of  woe. 


rr^ 

PROMETHEUS     BOUND,       '[/     ,    121       ' 

Prometheus.  Beseech  you,  think  not  I  am  sileut  thus// 
Through  pride  or  seorii  !     I  0UI3'  gnaw  my  heart 
^Vitli  meditation,  seeing  myself  so  wronged. 
For  so — tlieir  honors  to  these  new-made  gods, 
Wiiat  other  gave  but  I — and  dealt  them  out 
With  distribution  ?     A3' — but  here  I  am  dumb  ! 
For  here,  I  should  repeat  jour  knowledge  to  3'ou, 
If  I  spake  aught.     List  rather  to  the  deeds 
I  did  for  mortals  ! — how,  being  fools  before, 
I  made  them  wise  and  true  in  aim  of  soul. 
And  let  me  tell  3-on — not  as  taunting  men, 
But  teaching  3'ou  the  intention  of  m3^  gifts, 
How,  first  beholding,  thej'  beheld  in  vain, 
And  hearing,  heard  not,  but,  like  shapes  in  dreams. 
Mixed  all  things  wildlj-  down  the  tedious  time, 
Nor  knew  to  build  a  house  against  the  sun 
With  wicketed  sides,  nor  any  woodcraft  knew, 
But  lived,  like  silly  ants,  beneath  the  ground 
In  hollow  caves  unsunned.     There,  came  to  them 
No  stedfast  sign  of  winter,  nor  of  s])ring 
Flower-perfumed,  nor  of  summer  full  of  "fruit, 
But  blindl3'  and  lawlessly  they  did  all  things, 
Until  I  taught  them  how  the  stars  do  rise 
And  set  in  mysterj^,  and  devised  for  them 
Number,  the  inducer  of  philosophies, 
The  synthesis  of  Letters,  and  beside, 
The  artificer  of  all  things.  Memory', 
That  sweet  Muse-mother.     I  w^as  first  to  3^oke 
The  servile  beasts  in  couples,  carrying 
An  heirdom  of  man's  burdens  on  their  backs. 
I  joined  to  chariots,  steeds,  that  love  the  bit 
They  champ  at — the  chief  pomp  of  golden  ease ! 
Arid  none  but  I,  originated  ships. 
The  seaman's  chariots,  wandering  on  the  brine 
With  linen  wings.     And  I — oh,  miserable  ! — 
Who  did  devise  for  mortals  all  these  arts, 
Have  no  device  left  now  to  save  m3self 
From  the  woe  I  suffer. 

C'/iorws.  Most  unseeml3^  """^e 

Thou  sufferest,  and  dost  stagger  from  the  sense. 
Bewildered  ! "   Like  a  bad  leech  falling  sick 
Thou  art  faint  at  soul,  and  canst  not  find  the  drugs 
Required  to  save  th3'self 

Frometheus.  Tlarken  the  rest. 

And  marvel  further — what  more  arts  and  means 
I  did  invent — this  greatest ! — if  a  man 
U 


122  PROMETHEUS      BOUND. 

Fell  sick,  there  was  no  cure,  nor  esculent 
Nor  chrism,  nor  liquid,  but  for  lack  of  drugs 
Men  pined  and  wasted,  till  I  showed  them  all 
Those  mixtures  of  emollient  remedies 
Whereby  they  might  be  rescued  from  disease, 
[  lixed  the  various  rules  of  mantic  art. 
Discerned  the  vision  from  the  common  dream, 
Instructed  them  in  vocal  auguries 
Hard  to  interpret,  and  defined  as  plain 
The  wayside  omens — fliglits  of  crook-clawed  birds- 
Showed  which  are,  bj^  their  nature,  fortunate, 
And  which  not  so,  and  what  the  food  of  each. 
And  what  the  hates,  affections,  social  needs. 
Of  all  to  one  another — taught  what  sign 
Of  visceral  lightness,  colored  to  a  sliade. 
Maj'  charm  the  genial  gods,  and  what  fair  spots 
Commend  the  lung  and  liver.     Burning  so 
The  limbs  encased  in  fat,  and  the  long  chine, 
1  led  my  mortals  on  to  an  art  abstruse, 
And  cleared  their  eyes  to  th§  image  in  the  fire. 
Erst  filmed  in  dark.     Enough  said  now  of  this. 
For  the  other  helps  of  man  hid  underground, 
"J^he  iron  and  the  brass,  silver  and  gold, 
Can  any  dare  aflirm  he  found  them  out 
Before  me  ?  none,  I  know  !  unless  he  choose 
To  lie  in  his  vaunt.     In  one  word  learn  the  whole^ 
That  all  arts  came  to  mortals  from  Prometheus. 

Chorus.  Give  mortals  noV  no  inexpedient  help, 
Neglecting  thine  own  sorrow  1  I  have  hope  still 
To  see  thee,  breaking  from  the  fetter  here. 
Stand  up  as  strong  as  Zeus. 

Prometheus.  This  ends  not  thus. 

The  oracular  Fate  ordains.     I  must  be  bowed 
By  infinite  Avoes  and  pangs,  to  escape  this  chain. 
Necessity'  is  stronger  than  mine  art. 

Chorus.  Who  holds  the  helm  of  that  Necessity  ? 

Prometheus.  The  threefold  Fates  and  the  unforget< 
ting  Furies. 

Chorus.  Is  Zeus  less  absolute  than  these  are  ? 

Prometheus.  Yea, 

And  therefore  cannot  fl^"  what  is  ordained. 

Chorus.  What  is  ordained  for  Zens,  except  to  be 
A  king  forever. 

Prometheus.        'Tis  too  early  yet 
For  thee  to  learn  it :  ask  no  more. 


PROMETHEUS     BOUND.  1 23 

Chorus.  Perhaps 

Thy  secret  may  be  something  holy  ? 

Prometheus.  Turn 

To  another  matter  1  this,  it  is  not  time 
To  speak  abroad,  but  utterly  to  veil 
In  silence.     For  by  that  same  secret  kept, 
I  'scape  this  chain's  dishonor  and  its  woe. 

Chorus,   \st  strojihe. 
Never,  oh  never, 
Ma3'  Zeus,  the  all-giver, 
Wrestle  down  from  his  throne 
In  that  might  of  his  own 
To  antagonise  mine ! 
Nor  let  me  delay 
As  I  bend  on  my  way 
Towards  the  gods  of  the  shrine, 
Where  the  altar  is  full 
Of  the  blood  of  the  bull, 
Near  the  tossing  brine 
Of  Ocean  my  father  ! 
May  no  sin  be  sped  in  the  word  that  is  said, 
But  m}'  vow  be  rather 
Consummated, 
Nor  evermore  fail,  nor  evermore  pine. 

1st  antistrophe. 
'Tis  sweet  to  have 

Life  lengthened  out 
With  hopes  proved  brave 

By  the  very  doubt. 
Till  the  spirit  enfold 
Those  manifest  joys  which  were  foretold  I 
But  I  thrill  to  behold 

Thee,  victim  doomed. 
By  the  countless  cares 
And  the  drear  despairs, 
For  ever  consumed — 
And  all  because  thou,  who  art  fearless  now 

Of  Zeus  above. 
Didst  overflow  for  mankind  below 
With  a  free-souled,  reverent  love. 

Ah  friend,  behold  and  see ! 
What's  all  the  beauty  of  humanity  ? 

Can  it  be  fair — 
What's  all  the  strength  ? — is  it  strong? 


1.24  PROMETHEUS     BOUND. 

And  what  hope  can  they  bear, 
These  cl3ing  livers — living  one  clay  long  ? 
Ah,  seest  tliou  not,  my  friend, 
How  feeble  and  slow 
And  like  a  dream,  doth  go 
This  poor  blind  manhood,  drifted  from  its  end  ? 
And  how  no  mortal  ranglings  can  confuse 
The  harmony  of  Zeus  ? 

Prometheus,  I  have  learnt  these  things 
From  the  sorrow  in  thy  face. 

Another  song  did  fold  its  wings 
Upon  my  lips  in  other  days, 
When  round  the  bath  and  round  the  bed 
The  hymeneal  chant  instead 

I  sang  for  thee,  and  smiled  — 
And  thou  didst  lead,  with  gifts  and  vows, 

Hesione,  my  father's  child. 
To  be  thy  wedded  spouse. 

lo  enters. 

lo.  What  land  is  this?  what  people  is  here  ? 
And  who  is  he  that  writhes,  I  see, 

In  the  rock-hung  chain? 
Now  what  is  the  crime  that  hath  brought  thee  to  pain  5 
Now  what  is  the  land — make  answer  free — 
Which  I  wander  through  in  my  wrong  and  fear  ? 

Ah  !  ah  !  ah  me  ! 
The  gad-fly  stingeth  to  agony  ! 
0  Earth,  keep  oif  that  phanlasm  pale 
Of  earth-born  Argus! — ah! — I  quail 

When  my  soul  descries 
That  herdsman  with  the  myriad  eyes 
Wliich  seem,  as  he  comes,  one  crafty  e3'e. 
Graves  hide  him  not,  though  he  should  die, 
J^ut  he  doggetL  me  in  mj'  misery 
From  the  roots  of  death,  on  high — on  high— 
And  along  the  sands  of  ihe  siding  deep, 
All  faCiine  worn,  he  follows  me, 
And  his  waxen  reed  doth  undersound 

The  waters  round. 
And  giveth  a  measure  that  giveth  sleep 

Woe,  woe,  woe  ! 
Where  shall  my  wear^'^  course  be  done  ? — 
What  wouldst  thou  with  me,  Saturn's  son  ? 
A.nd  in  what  have  I  sinned,  that  I  should  go 


PROMETHEUS     BOUND.  125 

Thus  )'oke(i  to  grief  by  tliine  hand  for  ever  ? 
All  !  ah  !  (lost  vex  me  so 

That  I  madden  iiiid  shiver, 
Stung  through  with  dread? 
Flash  the  (ire  down,  to  burn  me  ! 
Heave  the  earth  up,  to  cover  me ! 
Or  plunge  me  in  the  deep,  with  tlie  salt  waves  over  me 
That  the  sea-beasts  may  be  fed  I 

0  king,  do  not  spurn  me 

In  my  prayer  ! 
For  this  wandering  everlonger,  evermore, 

Hath  overworn  me — 
And  I  know  not  on  what  shore 

1  ma}'  rest  from  my  despair. 

Chorus.   Hearest  thou  what  the  ox-horned   maiden 

saith  ? 
Promethevs.  How  could  I  choose  but  liarken  what 
she  saith, 
The  phrensied  maiden  ? — Inachus's  child? — 
Who  love-warms  Zeus's  heart,  and  now  is  lashed 
V)y  Here's  hate  afong  the  unending  ways? 

lo.  Who  taught  thee  to  articulate  that  name — 

My  father's  ?    Speak  to  his  child, 

By  grief  and  shame  defiled  ! 
Who  art  thou,  victim,  thou — who  dost  acclaim 
Mine  anguish  in  true  words,  on  the  wide  air  ? 
And  callest  too  by  name  the  curse  that  came 

From  Here  unaware, 
To  waste  and  pierce  me  with  its  maddening  goad  ? 

Ah — ah — I  leap 
With  the  pang  of  the  hungry — I  bound  on  the  road 

I  am  driven  by  my  doom — 

I  am  overcome 
B}'  the  wrath  of  an  enemy  strong  and  deep  ! 
Are.an,y  of  those  who  have  tasted  pain, 

Alas!  as  wretched  as  I  ? 
Xow  tell  me  plain,  doth  aught  remain 
For  my  soul  to  endure  beneath  the  skj- ? 
Is  there  any  help  to  be  holpen  by  ? 
If  knowledge  be  in  thee,  let  it  be  saidl 

Cry  aloud — cry 
To  the  wandering,  woeful  maid. 

Pi-omelheus.  Whatever  thou   wouldst  loarn    I   will 
declare — 


!26  PROMETHEUS      BOUND. 

No  riddle  r.pon  1113^  lips,  but  such  straighl  Avords 
As  frieuds  should  use  to  each  other  when  they  talk. 
Thou  seest  Prometheus,  who  gave  moitals  lire. 

lo.   0  common  Help  of  all  men,  known  ol"  all, 
0  miserable  Prometheus — for  what  cause 
Dost  thou  endure  thus  ? 

Prometheus.  I  have  done  with  wail 

For  ray  own  griefs — but  lately. 

lo.  Wilt  thou  not 

Vouchsafe  the  boon  to  me  ? 

Prometheus.  Say  what  thou  wilt, 

For  I  vouchsafe  k\\. 

lo.  '      Speak  then,  and  reveal 

Who  shut  thee  in  this  chasm. 

Prometheus.  The  Avill  of  Zeus, 

The  hand  of  his  Hephaestus. 

lo.  And  what  crime, 

Dost  expiate  so  ? 

Prometheus.   Enough  for  thee  I  have  told, 
In  so  much  only. 

lo.  Xay — but  show  besides 

The  limit  of  m}'  vrandering,  and  the  tinae 
Which  3'et  is  lacking  to  fulfd  my  grief 

Prometheus.   Wh}-,  not  to  know  were  better  than  tc 
know. 
For  such  as  thou. 

lo.  Beseech  thee,  blind  me  not 

To  that  which  I  must  suffer. 

Prometheus.  '  If  I  do, 

The  reason  is  not  that  I  grudge  a  boon. 

lo.  What  reason,  then,  pievents  tliy  s])eaking  out  ? 

Pi'ometheus.     No    grudging!     but   a  fear   to   break 
thine  heart. 

lo.  Less  care  for  me,  I  pra}' thee  !     Certaiut}', 
[  -count  for  advantage. 

Prometheus.  Thou  wilt  haA'e  it  so, 

ind,  therefore,  I  must  speak.     Kow  hear — 

Chorus.  Xot  yot 

Grive  half  the  guerdon  my  way.     Let  us  learn 
First,  what  the  curse  is  that  befel  the  maid — 
Her  own  voice  telling  her  own  wasting  woes 
The  sequence  of  that  anguish  shall  await 
The  teaching  of  thy  lips. 

Prometheus.  It  doth  behove  •• 

That  thou,  Maid  lo,  shouldst  vouchsafe  to  these 
Vhe  grace  they  pray — the  more  because  they  are  called 


P  R  O  M  K  T  II  £  U  S      BOUND.  127 

Thy  father's  sisters  !  since  to  open  out 
And  mourn  out  grief  where  it  is  possible 
To  dniw  a  tear  from  the  audience,  is  a  work 
That  i)a3's  its  own  price  well. 

lo.  I  cannot  choose 

But  trust  jou,  nymphs,  and  tell  you  all  3'e  ask, 
In  clear  words — though  I  sob  amid  my  speech 
In  speaking  of  the  storm-curse  sent  from  Zeus, 
And  of  my  beauty,  from  which  height  it  took 
Its  swoop  on  me,  poor  wretch!  left  thus  deformed 
And  monstrous  to  your  eyes.     For  evermore 
Around  my  virgin-chamber,  wandering  went 
The  nightl}^  visions  which  entreated  me 
■\\' ith  syllabled  smooth  sweetness — "  Blessed  maid, 
Wh}-  lengthen  out  th}'  maiden  hours  when  fate 
Permits  the  noblest  spousal  in  the  world  ? 
When  Zeus  burns  with  the  arrow  of  th}-  love. 
And  fain  would  touch  thy  beauty? — Midden,  thou 
Despise  not  Zeus  !  depart  to  Lerne's  mead 
That's  green  around  thy  father's  flocks  and  stalls. 
Until  the  passion  of  the  heavenly  Eye    '•'     '- 
Be  quenched  in  sight."     Such  dreams  did  all  night 

long, 
Constrain  me — me,  unhappy  ! — till  I  dared 
To  tell  my  father  how  they  trod  the  dark 
With  visionary  steps.     Whereat  he  sent 
His  frequent  heralds  to  the  P3^thian  fane. 
And  also  to  Dodona,  and  inquired 
How  best,  by  act  or  speech,  to  please  the  gods< 
The  same  returning,  brought  back  oracles 
Of  doubtful  sense,  indefinite  response. 
Dark  to  interpret ;  but  at  last  there  came 
To  Inachus  an  answer  that  was  clear — 
Thrown  straight  as  any  bolt,  and  spoken  out — ■ 
This — "  he  should  drive  me  from  my  home  and  land, 
And  bid  me  wander  to  the  extreme  A-erge 
Of  all  the  earth — or,  if  he  willed  it  not. 
Should  have  a  thunder  with  a  fiery  eye, 
Leap  straight  from  Zeus  to  burn  up  all  his  race 
To  the  last  root  of  it."     By  which  Loxian  word 
Subdued,  he  drove  me  forth,  and  shut  me  out, 
He  loth,  me  loth — but  Zens's  violent  bit 
Compelled  him  to  the  deed! — when  instantly 
My  body  and  soul  were  changed  and  distraught, 
And,  horned  as  ye  see,  and  spurred  along 
By  the  fanged  insect,  with  a  maniac  leap 


1 2S  r  R  0  M  E  T  H  E  U  S      B  0  L'  N  T) . 

I  ruslied  on  to  Cerchnea's  limpid  stream 

And  Lerne's  fountain-water.     There  tlie  earth-born, 

The  herdsman  Argus,  most  immitioable 

Of  wrath,  did  find  me  out,  and  track  me  out 

With  countless  ej'es,  set  staring  at  mj-  steps  ! 

And  though  an  unexpected,  sudden  doom 
Drew  him  from  life — I,  curse-tormented  still, 
And  driven  from  land  to  land  before  the  scourge 
The  gods  hold  o'er  me.      So,  thou  hast  heard  the  past, 
And  if  a  bitter  future  thou  canst  tell, 
Speak  on  !  I  charge  thee,  do  not  flatter  me 
Through  pit}^  with  false  words ;  for,  in  my  mind, 
Deceiving  works  more  shame  than  torturing  doth 

Choruif. 
Ah !  silence  here  ! 
Nevermore,  nevermore, 
Would  I  languish  for 
The  stranger's  word 
To  thrill  in  mine  ear ! 
Xevermore  for  the  wrong  and  the  woe  and  the  fear 
So  hard  to  behold, 
So  ciuel  to  bear. 
Piercing  my  soul  with  a  double-edged  sword 
Of  a  slidin<>-  cold  ! 
Ah  Fate  ! — ah  me  ! — 
1  shudder  to  see 
This  wandering  maid  in  her  agony. 

Prometheus.   Grief  is  too  quick  in  thee,  and  fear  too 
full. 
Be  patient  till  thou  hast  learnt  the  rest. 

GhoruH.  Speak— teach  ! 

To  those  who  are  sad  alreadj-,  it  seems  sweet, 
By  clear  foreknowledge  to  make  perfect  pain. 

Fromelheus.  The  boon  ye  asked  me  first  was  lightly 
won — 
For  first  ye  asked  the  story  of  this  maid's  grief 
As  her  ov.-n  lips  might  tell  it.     Now  remains 
To  list  what  other  sorrows  she  so  young 
Must  bear  from  Here  ! — Inachus's  child, 
0  thou  ! — drop  down  thy  soul  my  weightj'  words, 
And  measure  out  the  land  marks"  which  are  set 
To  end  thy  wandering.     Toward  the  orient  sun 
First  turn  thy  face  from  mine,  anrl  journey  on 
Along  the  desert  flats,  till  thou  shait  come 
Where  Scythia's  shei)herd  ])eoples  dwell  aloft. 


PROMETHEUS      BOUND.  129 

Perched  in  wheeled  waggons  under  woven  roofs, 
And  twang  the  rapid  arrow  past  the  bow — 
Approach  them  not ;  but  siding  in  thy  course, 
The  rugged  shore-rocks  resonant  to  the  sea, 
Depart  that  country.     On  the  left  hand  dwell 
The  iron-workers,  called  the  Chalybes, 
Of  Avhom  beware,  for  certes  they  are  uncouth. 
And  nowise  bland  to  strangers.     Reaching  so 
The  stream  Hybristes  (well  the  incomer  called). 
Attempt  no  passage — it  is  hard  to  pass — 
Or  ere  thou  come  to  Caucasus  itself, 
That  highest  of  mountains,  where  the  river  leaps 
The  precipice  in  his  strength! — tliou  must  toil  u]) 
Those  mountain-tops  that  neighbor  with  the  stars, 
And  tread  the  south  way,  and  draw  near,  at  last, 
Tlie  Amazonian  host  that  hateth  man, 
Inhabitants  of  Themiscyra,  close 
Upon  Thermodqn,  where  the  sea's  rough  jaw 
Doth  gnash  at  Salmydessa  and  provide 
A  cruel  host  to  seamen,  and  to  ships 
A  stepdame.     They  with  unreluctant  hand 
Shall  lead  thee  on  and  on,  till  thou  arrive 
Just  where  the  ocean-gates  show  narrowest 
On  the  Cimmerian  isthmus.     Leaving  which. 
Behoves  thee  swim  with  fortitude  of  soul 
The  straight  Ma^otis.     A}^  !  and  evermore 
That  traverse  shall  be  famous  on  men's  lips. 
That  strait,  called  Bosphorus,  the  horned  one's  ro&d 
So  named  because  of  thee,  who  so  wilt  pass 
From  Europe's  plain  to  Asia's  continent. 
IIow  think  ye,  n3'mphs  !  the  king  of  gods  appears 
Impartial  in  ferocious  deeds?     Behold! 
The  god  desirous  of  this  mortal's  love 
Hatli  cursed  her  with  these  wanderings.  Ah,  fair  child, 
Thou  hast  met  a  bitter  groom  for  bridal  troth  ! 
For  all  thou  yet  hast  heard,  can  o\\\y  prove 
The  incompleted  prelude  of  thy  doom. 
lo.   Ah,  ah  ! 

rrometheua.    Is't    thy    turn,  now,    to    shriek    and 
moan  ? 
IIow  wilt  thou,   Avhen   thou   hast  barkened   what  re- 
mains ? 
ChoruH.  Besides  the  grief  thou  hast  told,  can  aught 

remain  ? 
Frometheus.  A  sea — of  foredoomed  evil  worked  to 
storm. 

I 


lyO  PROMETHEUS     BOUND. 

lo.  What  boots  1113'  life,  then  ?  -why  not  cast  myself 
Down  headlong  from  this  miserable  rock, 
That,  dashed  against  the  flats,  I  may  redeem 
My  soul  from  sorrow?     Better  once  to  die, 
Than  day  by  day  to  suffer. 

Prometheus.  Yerily, 

It  would  be  hard  for  thee  to  bear  my  woe 
For  whom  it  is  appointed  not  to  die. 
Death  frees  from  woe :  but  I  before  me  see 
In  all  my  far  prevision,  not  a  bound 
To  all  I  suffer,  ere  that  Zeus  shall  fall 
From  being  a  king. 

lo.  And  can  it  CA'er  be 

Tiiat  Zeus  shall  fall  from  empire  ? 

Prometheus.  Thou,  methinks, 

Wouldst  take  some  joy  to  see  it. 

lo.  Could  I  choose  ? 

T,  who  endure  such  pangs,  now,  by  that  god  ? 

Prometheus.  Learn  from  me,  therefore,  tliat  the  event 
shall  be. 

lo.  B^?^  whom  shall  his  imperial  sceptred  hand 
Be  emptied  so  ? 

Prometheus.  Himself  shall  spoil  himself, 
Through  his  idiotic  counsels. 

lo.  How  ?  declare  ! 

Unless  the  word  bring  evil. 

Prometheus.  He  shall  wed — 

And  in  ihe  marriage-bond  be  joined  to  grief. 

lo.  A  heavenl}'  bride — or  human  ?     Speak  it  out. 
[f  it  be  utterable. 

Prometheus.  Why  should  I  sa3^  M'hich  ? 
It  ouoht  not  to  be  uttered,  veril3^ 

lo.^  Then 

It  is  his  wife  shall  tear  him  from  his  throne  ? 

Pi-ometheus.  It  is  his  wife  shall  bear  a  son  to  him. 
More  mighty  than  the  father. 

lo.  From  this  doom 

Hath  he  no  refuge  ? 

Prometheus.  None — or  ere  than  I, 

Loosed  from  these  fetters — 

lo.  Yea — but  who  shall  loose. 

While  Zeus  is  adverse  ? 

Prometheus.  One  who  is  born  of  thee — 

It  is  ordained  so. 

lo.  What  is  this  thou  sayest  ? 

A  son  of  mine  shall  liberate  thee  from  woe  ? 


PROMETHEUS      BOUND.  ]31 

Prometheus.    After   ten    generations,    count   three 
more, 
And  find  him  in  the  third. 

^o-  The  oracle 

Remains  obscure. 

Prometheus.  And  search  it  not  to  learn 

Thine  own  griefs  from  it. 

^  ^^-  Point  me  not  to  a  good, 

To  leave  me  straight  bereaved. 

^  Prometheus.  I  am  prepared 

To  grant  thee  one  of  two  things. 

^^-  But  whicli  two  ? 

Set  them  before  me — grant  me  power  to  choose. 
Prometheus.  I  grant  it— choose  now  1  shall  I  name 
aloud 
What  griefs  remain  to  wound  thee,  or  what  hand 
Shall  save  me  out  of  mine  ? 

Chorus.  Youchsafe,  O  god, 

The  one  grace  of  the  twain  to  her  who  prayst 
The  next  to  me — and  turn  back  neither  prayer 
Dishonor'd  by  denial.     To  herself 
Recount  the  future  wandering  of  her  feet  • 
Then  point  me  to  the  looser  of  thy  chain,  ' 
Because  I  yearn  to  know  him. 

Prometheus.  Since  ye  will, 

Of  absolute  will,  this  knowledge,  I  will  set 
No  contrary  against  it,  nor  keep  back 
A  word  of  all  ye  ask  for.     lo,  first 
To  thee  I  must  relate  thy  wandering  course 
Far  winding.     As  1  tell  it,  write  it  down 
In  thy  soul's  book  of  memories.    When  thou  hast  past 
The  refluent  bound  that  parts  two  continents, 
Track  on  the  footsteps  of  the  orient  sun 

In  his  own  fire — across  the  roar  of  seas 

Fly  till  thou  has  reached  the  Gorgonsean  flats 

Beside  Cisthene.     There,  the  Phorcides, 

Three  ancient  maidens,  live,  with  shape  of  swan, 

One  tooth  between  them,  and  one  common  eye, ' 

On  whom  the  sun  doth  never  look  at  all 

With  all  his  rays,  nor  evermore  the  moon. 

When  slie  looks  through  the  night !     Anear  to  whom 

Are  the  Gorgon  sisters  tliree,  enclothed  with  wings. 

With  twisted  snakes  for  ringlets,  man-abhorred— 

There  is  no  mortal  gazes  in  their  face. 

And  gazing  can  breathe  on.     1  speak  of  such 

To  guard  tiiee  from  their  horror.     Ay  !  and  list 


132  PROMETHEUS     BOUND. 

Another  tale  of  a  dreadful  sight !  beware 

The  Grifllus,  those  unbarking  dogs  of  Zeus, 

Those  sharp-mouthed  dogs  !— and  the  Arimaspian  host 

Of  one-eyed  horsemen,  liabiting  beside 

The  river  of  Pluto  that  runs  brigiit  with  gold. 

Approach  them  not,  beseech  thee.     Treselitly 

Tliou'lt  come  to  a  distant  land,  a  dusky  tribe 

Of  dwellers  at  the  fountain  of  the  Sun, 

Whence  flows  the  river  Ji]thiops ;  wind  along 

Its  banks  and  turn  off  at  the  cataracts. 

Just  as  the  Nile  pours,  from  the  Bybline  hills, 

His  holy  and  sweet  wave  !— his  course  shall  guide 

Thine  own  to  that  triangular  Nile-ground 

Where,  lo,  is  ordained  for  thee  and  thine, 

A  lengthened  exile.     Have  I  said,  in  this, 

Aught  darkly  or  incompletely? — now  repeat 

The  question,  make  the  knowledge  fuller  !     Lo, 

I  have  more  leisure  than  J  covet,  here. 

Chorus.   If  thou  canst  tell  us  aught  that's  left  untold 
Or  loosely  told,  of  her  most  dreary  llight, 
Declare  it  straight !  but  if  thou  hast  uttered  all, 
Grant  us  that  latter  grace  for  which  we  prayed, 
Remembering  how  we  prayed  it. 
^  Fromelheus.  She  has  heard 

The  uttermost  of  her  wandering.     There  it  ends. 
15 ut  that  she  may  be  certain  not  to  have  heard 
All  vainly,  I  will  speak  what  she  endured 
Ere  coming  hither,  and  invoke  the  past 
To  prove  my  prescience  true.     And  so — to  leave 
A  multitude  of  words,  and  pass  at  once 
To  the  subject  of  thy  course  !     When  thou  hadst  gone 
To  those  Molossian  plains  which  sweep  around 
Dodona  shouldering  Heaven,  wherebj-  the  fane 
Of  Zeus  Thesprotian  keepeth  oracle, 
And,  wonder  past  belief,  where  oaks  do  wave 
Articulate  adjurations — (ay,  the  same 
Saluted  thee  in  no  perplexed  phrase 
But  clear  with  glory,  noble  wife  of  Zeus 
That  shouldst  be,  there — some  sweetness  took  thy 

sense  !) 
Thou  didst  rush  further  onward — stung  along 
The  ocean-sho«ve,  towards  Khea's  mighty  bay, 
And,  tost  back  from  it,  Ava^  tost  to  It  again 
In  stormy  evolution  ! — and,  know  well, 
In  coming  time  that  hollow  of  the  sea 
Shall  bear  the  name  Ionian,  and  present 


I' U  O  M  El' U  K  U  S      BOUND.  ISTj 

A  monument  of  lo's  pa'jsago  through, 

Unto  till  niortiils.     Be  tliese  words  the  signs 

or  my  souTs  power  to  look  l)e3'oncl  the  veil 

Of  visible  things.     Tlie  rest,  to  yon  and  her, 

I  will  deehire  in  common  audience,  nymphs, 

Returning  thither  where  m^'  speech  brake  oti". 

Thei'e  is  a  town  Canobus,  built  upon 

The  earth's  fair  margin,  at  the  mouth  of  Nile, 

And  on  the  mound  washed  upj^j-  it !     lo,  theie 

Shall  Zeus  give  back  to  thee  thj-  perfect  mind. 

And  only  by  tlie  pressure  and  the  touch 

Of  a  hand  not  terrible  ;  and  thou  to  Zeus 

Shalt  bear  a  diisk3-  son  who  shall  be  called 

Thence,  E[)a[)lius,  Touched  !  That  son  shall  pluck  the 

fruit 
Of  all  that  land  wide-watered  by  the  flow 
Of  Nile.;  but  after  him,  when  counting  out 
As  far  as  the  liflh  full  generation,  then 
Full  lift}'  maidens,  a  fair  woman-race, 
Shall  back  to  Argos  turn  reluttautl}'. 
To  fly  the  profl'ered  nuptials  of  their  kin. 
Their  father's  brothe4-s."    These  being  passion-struck, 
Like  fixlcons  bearing  hard  oil  fl.ying  doves, 
Shall  folU>w,  hunting  at  a  quarry  of  love 
The}'  should  not  hunt     till  envious  Heaven  maintain 
A  curse  betwixt  that  beauty  and  their  desire. 
And  Greece  receive  them,  to  be  overcome 
In  murtherous  woman-war,  by  fierce  red  hands 
Kept  savage  by  the  nig4it.      For  every  wife 
Shall  bla}'  a'husband,  dyeing  deep  in  blood 
The  sword  of  a  doulile  edge  ! — (I  w'ish  indeed 
As  fair  a  marriage-joy  to  all  ui}'  foes  !) 
One  bride  alone  shall  fail  to  smite  to  death 
The  liead  upon  her  pillow,  touched  with  love. 
Made  imp<jtent  of  purpose,  and  impelled 
To  choose  the  lesser  evil — shame  on  her  cheeks. 
To  blood-guilt  on  her  hands.     AVhich  bride  shall  bear 
A  royal  race  in  Argos.     Tedious  speech 
^Vere  needed  to  relate  particulars 
Of  these  things — 'tis  enoiigli  that,  from  her  seed, 
Shall  si)ring  the  strong  He,  famous  with  the  Ixnv, 
Whose  arm  .shall  break  mV  fetters  off.     Behold, 
My  mother  Themis,  that  old  Titaness,  *' 
Delivered  to  me  such  an  oracle — 
But  how  and  when,  I  should  be  long  to  speak, 
And  thou,  in  hearing,  wouldst  not  gain  at  all. 
12 


134  PROMETHEUS     BOUND. 

lu.  Eleleu,  eleleu  ! 

How  the  spasm  and  tlie  pain 
AikI  the  fii-e  on  the  brain 

Strike,  bnrniug  me  throngh  ! 
How  the  sting  of  the  curse,  all  aflame  as  it  flew, 

Pricks  me  onward  again  ! 
ITow  m3'  heart,  in  its  terror,  is  spurning  my  breast, 
And  my  eyes,  like  the  wheels  of  a  chariot,  roll  round  I 
I  am  whirled  from  vaj  coui-se,  to  the  east,  to  the  west, 

In  the  whirlwind  of  phrens^^  all  madly  inwoiind 

And  my  mouth  is  unbridled  for  anguish  and  hate, 
And  my  words  beat  in  vain,  in  wild  storms  of  unrest, 
On  the  sea  of  jny  desolate  fate. 

Ch  orua — strophe. 
Oh,  wise  was  he,  oh,  wise  was  he, 
Who  first  within  his  spirit  knew 
And  with  his  tongue  declared  it  t:\ie. 
That  love  comes  best  that  comes  unto 

The  equal  of  degree  ! 
And  that  the  poor  and  that  the  low 
Should  seek  no  love  irom  those  above 
Whose  souls  are  fluttered  Avith  the  flow 
Of  airs  about  their  golden  height, 
Or  proud  because  they  see  arow 
Ancestral  crowns  of  light. 

Antidroj)he. 
Oh,  never,  never,  ma^-  ye,  Fates, 

J3ehold  .me  with  your  awful  ca'cs      i 

Lift  mine  too  fondly  up  the  skies 
Where  Zeus  upon  the  purple  waits  ! — 

Nor  let  me  step  too  near — too  near — 
To  any  suitor,  bright  from  heaven  ! 

Because  I  see — because  I  fear 
This  loveless  maiden  vexed  and  laden 
By  this  fell  curse  of  Here,  driven 

On  wanderings  dread  and  drear. 

EiJode. 
Na}^  grant  an  equal  troth  instead 

Of  nuptial  love,  to  bind  me  by  ! 
It  will  not  hurt — I  shall  not  dread 

To  meet  it  in  reply. 
But  let  not  love  from  those  above 
Revert  and  fix  me,  as  I  said. 

With  that  inevitable  Eve  ! 


PROM  E  T  II  E  U  S      15  O  U  N  D  .  136 

I  have  no  sword  to  fight  that  fight — 
I  have  no  strength  to  tread  that  path — 
I  know  not  if  m}-  nature  hath 
The  power  to  bear — I  cannot  see 
Whither,  from  Zeus's  infinite, 
I  have  the  power  to  flee. 

Prometheus.  Yet  Zens,  albeit,  most  absolnte  of  will, 
Sliall  tnrn  to  meekness — such  a  marriage-rite 
lie  holds  in  preparation,  which  anon 
Shall  thrust  him  headlong  from  his  gereut  seat 
Adown  the  abysmal  void,  and  so  the  curse 
His  father  Chronos  muttered  in  his  fall, 
As  he  fell  from  his  ancient  throne  and  cursed, 
Shall  be  accomplished  wliolly.     No  escape 
From  all  that  ruin  shall  the  filial  Zeus 
Find  granted  to  him  from  any  of  his  gods, 
Unless  I  teach  him.     I,  the  refuge,  know. 
And  I,  the  means.     No'w,  therefore,  let  him  sit 
And  brave  the  imminent  doom,  and  fix  his  faith 
On  his  supernal  noises,  hurtling  on 
With  restless  hand,  tlie  bolt  that  breathes  out  fire — 
For  these  things  shall  not  help  him,  none  of  then). 
Nor  hinder  his  perdition  when  he  ialls 
To  shame,  and  lower  than  patience.     Such  a  foe 
He  doth  himself  prepare  against  himself, 
A  wonder  of  unconquerable  Hate, 
An  organizer  of  sublimer  fire 
'I'han  glares  in  lightnings,  and  of  grander  sound 
Than  aught  the  thunder  rolls,  out-thundering  it. 
With  power  to  shatter  in  Poseidon's  fist 
Tlie  trident-spear,  which,  while  it  plagues  the  sea. 
Doth  sliake  tlie  shores  around  it.     Ay,  and  Zeus, 
Precipitated  thus,  shall  learn  at  length 
Tlie  cUlierence  betwixt  I'ule  and  servitude. 

Chorus.  Thou  makest  threats  for  Zeus  of  thy  desires. 

Frometheus.  I  tell   you,   all   these  things  shall  be 
fulfilled, 
Even  so  as  I  desire  them. 

Chorus.  Must  we  then 

Look  out  for  one  shall  come  to  Master  Zeus? 

Frometheus.  These  chains  weigh   lighter    than   his 
sorrows  shall. 

Chorus.    How  art   thou    not  afraid  to  utter  such 
words  ? 

Prometheus.  What  should  /fear,  who  cannot  die? 


1 3G  PROMETHEUS      BOUND. 

C/iorus.  But  hf 

Can  visit  thee  with  dreader  u'oe  than  death's. 

Prometheus.    Wh}-  let  him  do  it! — I  am  here  pre- 
pared 
For  all  things  and  their  pangs. 

Chorus.  The  wise  arc  they 

Who  reverence  Adrasteia. 

Prometheus.  Reverence  thou, 

Adore  thou,  flatter  thou,  Avhomever  reigns, 
Whenever  reigning  !  but  for  me,  3'our  Zeus 
Is  less  than  nothing.     Let  him  act  and  reio-n 
His  brief  hour  out  according  to  his  will — 
He  will  not,  therefore,  rule  the  gods  too  lonir. 
But  lo  !  I  see  that  courier-god  of  Zeus, 
That  new-made  menial  of  the  new  crowned  kiu"-. 
He  doubtless  ernes  to  announce  to  us  something  new. 

IIkrmks  en  irs. 

Hermes.  I   speak  to   tliee,   the   sophist,  the  talkei 
down 
Of  scorn  b}^  scorn,  the  sinner  against  goda, 
The  reverencer  of  men,  the  tliief  of  fire — 
I  speak  to  thee  and  adjure  tliee!     Zeus  requires 
Thj'  declaration  of  what  marriage  rite 
Thus  moves  thy  vaunt  and  shall  hereafter  cause 
His  fall  from  empire.     Do  not  wrap  thy  speech 
In  riddles,  but  speak  clearlj^ !     Never  cast 
Ambiguous  paths,  Prometheus,  for  my  feet, 
Since  Zeus,  thou  may'st  perceive,  is  scarcely  won 
To  merely  bj-  such  means. 

Prometheus.  A  speech  well-mouthed 

In  the  utterance,  and  full-minded  in  the  sense, 
As  doth  befit  a  servant  of  the  gods  ! 
New  gods,  ye  newly  reign,  and  think  forsooth 
Ye  dwell  in  towers  too  high  for  an}-  dart 
To  carry  a  wound  there ! — have  I  not  stood  by 
AVhile  two  kings  fell  from  thence  ?  and  shall  1  not 
Behold  the  third,  the  same  who  rules  you  now, 
Fall,  shamed  to  sudden  ruin  ? — ^^Do  I  seem 
To  tremble  and  quail  before  your  modern  gods  ? 
Far  be  it  from  me ! — Fur  thyself,  depart, 
Re-tread  thy  steps  in  haste.     To  all  thou  hast  asked, 
I  answer  nothing. 

Hermes.  Such  a  wiud  of  pride 

Impelled  thee  of  yore  full  sail  upon  those  rocks. 


PROMETHEUS      BOUND.  131 

Fi'omelhcus.  I  would  not  barter — learn  thou  soothlj 
that  !— 
My  sutfering  for  thy  service.     I  maintain 
It  is  a  nobler  tliinji"  to  serve  these  roclcs 
Than  live  a  failhlul  slave  to  father  Zeus. 
Thus  upon  the  scorners  I  retort  their  scorn. 

Hermeti.    It   seems    that   thou    dost    glory   in    thy 
despair. 

Prometheus.   I,  glor^^  ?  would  my  foes  did  glory  sOj 
And  stood  by  to  sec  them  ! — Naming  whom 
Thou  art  not  un remembered. 

Hermes.  Dost  thou  charge 

Me  also  with  the  blame  of  thy  mischance? 

Prometheus.   I  tell  thee  I  loathe  the  universal  gods, 
Who  for  the  good  I  gave  them  rendered  back 
The  ill  of  their  injustice. 

Hermes.  Thou  art  mad — 

Thou  art  raving,  Titan,  at  the  fever-height. 

Prometheus  If  it  be  madness  to  abhor  my  foes, 
May  I  be 'mad  ! 

Hermes.  If  thou  wert  prosperous, 

Thou  would st  be  unendurable. 

Prometheus.  Alas  ! 

Hermes.   Zeus  knows  not  that  word. 

Prometheus.  But  maturing  Time 

Teaches  all  things. 

Hermes.  Howbeit,  thon  hast  not  learnt 

The  wisdom  yet,  thou  needest. 

Prometheus.  If  I  had, 

1  should  not  talk  thus  with  a  slave  like  thee. 

Hermes.  No  answer  thou  vouchsafest,  1  believe, 
To  the  great  Sire's  requirement. 

Prometheus.  Yeril^' 

I  owe  him  grateful  service — and  should  pa^"^  it. 

Hermes.   Why,  thou  dost  mock  me,  Titan,  as  I  stood 
A  child  before  thy  face. 

Prometheus.  No  child,  forsooth, 

But  yet  more  foolish  than  a  foolish  child. 
If  thou  expect  that  I  should  answer  aught 
Thy  Zeus  can  ask.     No  torture  from  his  hand 
Xor  any  machination  in  the  world 
Shall  force  mine  utterance,  ere  lie  loose,  himself. 
These  cankerous  fetters  from  me  !    For  the  rest, 
Let  him  now  hurl  his  blanching  lightnings  down, 
And  with  his  white-winged  suows  and  mutterings  deejt 
Of  subterranean  thundeis,  mix  all  things, 
12- 


r 


138  PROMETHEUS      BOUND. 

Confound  thera  in  disorder.     None  of  this 
Shall  bend  m}'  sturd}'  will,  and  make  me  speak 
The  name  of  his  dethroner  who  shall  come. 

Hermes.   Can  this  avail  thee  ?     Look  to  it ! 

Promethe^is.  Long  ago 

ft  was  looked  forward  to — precounselled  of. 

Hermes.  Vain  god,  take   righteous  courage ! — dare 
for  once 
To  apprehend  and  front  thine  agonies 
With  a  just  prudence. 

Prometheus.  Yainl}'  dost  thou  chafe 

M_y  soul  with  exhortation,  as  ^"onder  sea 
Goes  beating  on  the  rock.     Oh  !  think  no  more 
That  I,  fear-struck  by  Zeus  to  a  woman's  mind, 
Will  supplicate  him,  loathed  as  he  is, 
With  feminine  upliftings  of  m^'  hands, 
To  break  these  chains.     Far  from  me  be  the  thought ! 

Hermes.  I  have  indeed,    methinks,    said   much   in 
vain— 
For  still  th}''  heart,  beneath  m^-  showers  of  pra3'ers, 
Lies  dr)^  and  hard — nay,  leai)s  like  a  young  horse 
Who  bites  against  the  new  bit  in  his  teeth, 
And  tnofs  and  struooles  against  the  new-tried  rein — 
Still  fiercest  in  the  feeblest  thing  of  all, 
Which  sophism  is,  since  absolute  will  disjoined 
From  perfect  mind  is  worse  than  weak.      IJehold, 
Unless  my  words  persuade  thee,  what  a  blast 
And  whirlwind  of  inevitable  woe 
-Must  sweep  persuasion  through  thee!     For  at  first 
The  Father  will  split  up  this  jut  of  rock 
With  the  great  thunder  and  the  bolted  flame, 
And  hide  thy  bod}^  where  a  hinge  of  stone 
Shall    catch    it   like    an  arm ; — and    when   thou    hast 

passed 
A  long  black  time  within,  thou  shalt  come  out 
To  front  the  sun  while  Zeus's  winged  hound. 
The  strong  carnivorous  eagle,  shall  wheel  down 
To  meet  thee,  self-called  to  a  daily  feast. 
And  set  his  fierce  beak  in  thee,  and  tear  oflT 
The  long  rags  of  th,y  flesh,  and  batten  deep 
Upon  til}-  dusk}^  liver.     Do  not  look 
For  an}'  end  moreover  to  this  curse, 
Or  ere  some  god  appear,  to  accept  thy  pangs 
On  his  own  head  vicarious,  and  descend 
With  unreluctant  step  the  darks  of  hell 
And  gloomy  abysses  around  Tartarus. 


I>  U  O  M  E  T  II  K  r  S      B  0  U  N  D  .  1  33 

Then  ponder  this  ! — this  threat  is  not  a  growth 
Of  vain  invention  ;  it  is  spoken  and  meant ! 
King  Zeus's  mouth  is  impotent  to  lie, 
Consummating  the  utterance  by  the  act — 
So,  look  to  it,  thou  !-;-take  heed — and  nevermore 
Forget  good  counsel,  to  indulge  self-will. 

CJiorus.   Our  Hermes  suits  his  reasons  to  the  times  ; 
At  least  I  think  so — since  he  bids  thee  drop 
Self-will  for  prudent  counsel.     Yield  to  him  ! 
When  the  wise  err,  their  wisdom  makes  their  shame. 
FromeUieus.   Unto  me  the  foreknower,  this  mandate 
of  power 

lie  cries,  to  reveal  it. 
What's  strange  in  m}-  fate,  if  I  suffer  from  hate 

At  the  hour  that  I  feel  it? 
Let  the  locks  of  the  lightning,  all  bristling  and  whiten« 
ing, 

Flash,  coiling  me  round, 
While  the  nether  goes   surging   'neath    thunder    and 
scourging 

Of  wild  winds  unbound  ! 
Let  the  blast  of  the  firmament  whirl  from  its  place 

The  earth  rooted  below, 
And  the  brine  of  the  ocean,  in  rapid  emotion, 

lie  it  driven  in  the  face 
Of  the  stars  up  in  heaven,  as  the}^  walk  to  and  fro! 
Let  him  huid  me  anon,  into  Tartarus — on — 

To  the  blackest  degree, 
Witli  NeeessitA-'s  voj'tices  strangling  me  down  ; 
But  he  cannot  join  death  to  a  fate  meant  for  me  !   \ 
Hermes.  Whv  the  words  that  he  speaks   and  the 
thoughts  that  he  thinks 
A  re  man  i  acal ! — ad  d , 
If  the  Fate  who  bath  bound  him,  should  loose  not  the 
links, 

He  were  utterlj^  mad. 
Then  depart  yQ  who  groan  with  him, 
Leaving  to  moan  with  him — 
(xo  in  haste  I  lest  the  roar  of  the  thunder  anearing 
Should  blast  you  to  idioc}'^,  living  and  hearing. 

Ghorux.   Change  thy  speech  for  another,  thy  thouglit 

for  a  new, 
If    to  move  me  and  teach  me,  indeed  be  thy  care ! 
For  thy  words  swerve  so  far  from  the  loyal  and  true, 
That  the  thunder  of  Zeus  seems  more  easy  to  bear 


140  PROMETHEUS      BOUND. 

How!  couldst  teach  me  to  venture  such  vileiiess  ?  be- 
hold ! 
1  choose,  with  this  victim,  this  anguish  foretold  ! 
I  recoil  from  tlie  traitor  in  hale  and  disdain — 
And  I  know  that  the  curse  of  the  treason  is  worse 
Than  the  pang  of  the  chain. 
Hermex.  Then  remember,  0  nymphs,  whiit  I  tell  you 

before, 
Nor,  wlien  pierced  b}'  the  arrows  that  Ate  will  throw 

Cast  blame  on  your  fate,  and  declare  evermore 

That  Zeus  thrust  you  on  anguish  he  did  not  foreshow 
you. 
Nay,  verih',  nay!  for  ^-e  perish  anon 
For  j-onr  deed — hy  ^your  choice? — bj*  no  blindness  of 

doubt. 
No  abruptness  of  doom  ! — but  b^^  madness  alone, 
In  the  great  net  of  Ate,  whence  none  cometh  out, 

Ye  are  wound  and  undone  I 
Prometheus.  A3' !   in  act,   now — in    word,  now,  no 
more, 

Earth  is  rocking  in  space  ! 
And  the  thunders  crash  up  with  a  roar  upon  roar, 
And  the  ed3'ing  lightnings  flash  fire  in  my  face. 
And  the  whirlwinds  are   whirling  the  dust  round  and 
round. 
And  the  blasts  of  the  winds  universal  leap  free 
And  blow  each  upon  each  with  a  jDassion  of  sound,' 

And  father  goes  mingling  in  storm  with  the  sea ! 
Such  a  curse  on  my  head,  in  a  manifest  dread. 

From  the  hand  of  your  Zeus  has  been  hurtled  along 
0  mj'  mother's  fair  glory !  O,  JEther,  enringing. 
All  e^'es  with  the  SAveet  common  light  of  thy  bringing, 
Dost  see  how  I  suffer  this  wrong  v 


POEMS. 


A  LAMENT  FOR  ADONIS. 

FROM    BTON. 

I  MOURN  for  Adonis — Adonis  is  dead. 

Fair  Adonis  is  detid,  and  the  Loves  arc  lanientiuo. 
Sleep,  Cypris,  no  more  on  th^^  pnrple-strewed  Iteci ! 

Arise,  Avretcli  stoled  in  black — beat  thy  breast  unrC' 
lenting, 
And  shriek  to  the  worlds,  "  Faii-  Adonis  is  dead." 

I  monrn  for  Adonis — the  Loves  are  lamenting. 

lie  lies  on  th-e  hills  in  his  beanty  and  death— 
The  white  tusk  of  a  boar  has  transpierced  his  white  tli'gh. 

Cytberea  grows  mad  at  his  tliin  gasping  breath, 
While  the  black  blood  drips  down  on  the  pale  ivory, 

And  his  eye-balls   lie  quenched  with  the  weight  of 
his  brows, 
The  rose  f:\des  from  his  lips,  and  upon  them  just  parted 

The  kiss  dies  the  goddess  consents  not  to  lose, 
Though  the  kiss  of  the  Dead  cannot   make  her  glad- 
hearted. 

He  knows  not  "who  kisses  him  dead  in  the  dews. 

1  mourn  for  Adonis — the  I^oves  are  lamenting. 

Deep,  deep  in  the  thigh,  is  Adonis's  wound, 
T)Ut  a  deeper,  is  Cypris's  bosom  presenting. 

The  youth  lieth  dead  while  his  dogs  howl  aronnd, 
And  the  nymphs  weep  aloud  from  the  inists  of  the  hill, 

And  the  poor  Aphrodite,  with  tresses  imbonnd, 
All    dishevelled,    unsandaled,    shrieks    mourn lui   and 
shrill 
Through  the  dusk  of  the  groves.     The  thorns, 
tearing  her  feet, 
Gather  np  the  red  fl(;\ver  of  her  blood  which  is  holy, 

141 


142  A      LAMENT      FOR     ADONIS. 

Each  footstep  she  takes — and  the  vaHoys  repeat 
The  sharp  cry  she  utters,  and  draw  it  out  t^lowly. 

She  ealls  on  her  spouse,  her  Assyrian,  on  him 
Her  own  youtli,  wliile  the  dark  blood  spreads  over  t  is 
body, 

The  chest  taking  hue  from  the.  gash  in  the  limb, 
And  the  bosom  once  ivoiy,  turniug-  to  ruddy. 

Ah,  ah,  C3'therea  !  the  Loves  are  lamenting. 

She  lost  her  fair  spoUvSe,  and  so  lost  her  lair  smile — • 
When  he  lived  slie  was  fair  b}'  the  whole  world's  con- 
senting, 
AVhose   fairness   is  dead   Avith   him  !  woe  worlli  tlie 
while  1 
All  the  mountains  above  and  the  o^klands  below 
Murmur,  ah,  ah,  Adonis  !  the  streams  overflow 
Aphrodite's  deep  wail — river-fountains  in  i,)iVy 
Weep  soft  in  the  hills,  and  the  flowers  as  they  blow 
Redden  outward  with  sorrow,  while  all  hear  her  go 
With  the  song  of  her  sadness  through  mountain  And 
city. 

Ah,  ah,  Cytherea  !     Adonis  is  dead, 

Fair  Adonis  is  dead — Echo  answers,  Adonis! 
Who  weeps  not  for  Cypris,  when  bowing  her  head 

Slie  stares  at  the  wound  wdiere  it  gapes  and  astonies  ? 
^When,  ah,  ah! — she  saw  how  the  blood  ran  away 

And  empuipled  the  thigh,  and,  with  wild  hands 
flung  out. 
Said  with  sobs,  "  Stay,  Adonis  !  unhappy  one,  stay. 

Let  me  feel  thee  once  more — let  me  ring  thee  about 
With  the  clasp  of  my  arms,  and  press  kiss  into  kiss  ! 

Wait  a  little,  Adonis,  and  kiss  me  again. 
For  the  last  time,  beloved— and  but  so  much  of  this 

That  the  kiss  may  learn  life  from  the  warmth  of  the 
strain  ! 
— Till   thy  breath  shall  exude   from   thy  soul   to  my 
mouth. 

To  my  heart — and  the  love-charm   I,  once  more  ro- 
ceiving. 
May  diink  thy  love  in  it,  and  keep  of  a  trutli 

That  one  kiss  in  the  place  of  Adonis  the  living. 
Thou  fliestme,  mournful  one,  fliest  me  far, 

My  Adonis,  and  seekest  the  Acheron  portal  — 
To  Hell's  cruel  King  goest  down  with  a  scar, 

\N  hile  I  weep  and  live  on  like  a  wretched  immortal, 


/• 


A      L  A  iM  E  N  T      FOR     A  D  0  N  T  S  . 


'  ^]f 


JJ- 


'  /. 


V 


/•;. 


And  follow  no  step  ! — -0  rerseplionc,  take  him, 

M}'^  husband! — thou'rt  belter  and  brighter  than  1, 
So  all  beaut}'  flows  down  to  thee!   /cannot  make  him 

Look  up  at  my  grief — there's  despair  in  m}'  cry, 
Since  I  wail  for  Adonis  who  died  to  me  .  .  died  to  me  .  . 
— Then,  I  fear  tliee  ! — Art  thou  dead,  my  Adored  ? 
Passion  ends  like  a  dream  in  the  sleep  that's  denied  to 
me — 
Cy[)ris  is  widowcd^ — the  Loves  seek  their  lord 
All  the  house  through  in  vain!     Charm  of  cestus  has 
ceased 
"With  thy  clasp! — 0  too  bold  in  the  hunt  past  pre- 
venting, 
Ay,  mad,  thou  so  fair  ...  to  have  strife  with  a  beast !" — 
Thus  the  goddess  wailed  on — and  the  Loves  are  la- 
menting. 

Ah,  ah,  Cytherea  !  Adonis  is  dead. 

She  wept  tear  after  tear,  Avith  the  blood  which   was 
shed — 
And  both  turned  into  flowers  for   the   earth's  garden- 
close, 
Her  tears,  to  the  wind  flower — his  blood,  to  the  rose. 

1  mourn  for  Adonis — Adonis  is  dead. 

Weep  no  more  in  tlie  woods,  Cytherea,,  thy  lover  ! 
So,  well !  make  a  place  for  his  corse  in  thy  bed, 

With  the  purples  thou  slecpest  in,  under  and  over. 
He's  fair  though  a  corse — a  fair  corse  .  .  like  a  sleeper. 

Lay  him  soft  in  the  silks  he  had  pleasure  to  fold. 
When,  beside  thee  at   night,  holy    dreaiTis  deep  and 
deeper 

Enclosed  his  young  liie  on  the  couch  made  of  gold. 
Love  him  still,  poor  Adonis  !  cast  on  him  together 

The  crowns  and  the  flowers  !  since  he  died  from  the 
place, 
Wh}'  let  all  die  with  him— let  the  blossoms  go  wither, 

Kain  myrtles  and  olive-buds  down  on  his  face! 
Rain  the  m\'rrh  down,  let  all  that  is  best  fall  a-pining, 

Since  the   myri-h   of  his   life   from   thy   kee[»ing    is 
swei)t  ! — 

Fale  he  lay,  thine  Adonis,  in  purples  reclining — . 

The  Loves  raised  their  voices  around  him  and  wei)t. 
The}'  have  shorn  their  bright   curls   off  to  cast  oc 

Adonis ;  ^ 

One  treads  on  his  bow — on  his  arrows,  another — 
One  breaks  up  a  we  11- feathered  quiver,  and  one  is 


144  A     VISION     OF     POETS. 

Bent  low  at  a  sandal,  untying  the  strings, 
And  one  carries  the  vases  of  gold  from  the  springs, 
While   one  washes   the   wound — and    Ijehind    them   a 
brother 
Fans  down  on  the  bod^-  sweet  air  with  liis  wings. 

C^'therea  hei'self,  now,  the  Loves  are  lamenting. 

Each  torch  at  the  door  Hynienreiis  blew  out ; 
And,  the   marriage-wreath   dropping  its  leaves  as  re- 
penting, 

No  more  "  Hymen,  Hymen"  is  canted  about. 
But  the  ai  ai  instead — "  ai  alas"  is  begun 

For  Adonis,  and  then  follows  "  ai  H^MneuiBus  i" 
The  Graces  are  weeping  for  Cinris'  son, 

Sobbing  low,  each  to  each,    "  His  fair  eyes  cannot 
see  us !" — 
Their  wail  strikes  more  shrill  than  the  sadder  Dione's. 
The  Fates  mourn  aloud  for  Adonis,  Adonnis, 
Deep  chanting:  he  hears  not  a  word  that  tlie}'  say. 

He  u'ou/fZ  hear,  but  Persei^honc  has  him  in  keeping — 
Cease  moan,  Cytherea — leave  pomps  for  to-da}'. 

And   weep  new   when  a  new   year  refits   thee    foi 
weeping. 


A  YISION  OF  POETS. 

0  Sacred  Essence,  lighting  me  tbis  hour. 
How  may  I  lightly  stile  thy.  great  power? 

Echo.  .  Power. 

Power  !  but  of  whence  ?  under  the  greenwood  spraye? 

Or  liv'st  in  Heaven  ?  saye. 
Echo.  In  Heavens  aye. 

In  Heavens  aye !  tell,  may  I  it  obtayne 

By  alms,  by  fasting,  prayer — by  paine  ? 
Echo.  By  paine. 

Show  me  the  paine,  it  shall  be  undergone ; 

1  to  mine  end'will  still  go  on. 

Echo.  Go  on. 

Britanxi.v's  Pastorals. 
A  POET  could  not  sleep  aright, 
For  his  soul  kept  up  too  much  light 
Under  his  ej^elids  for  the  niglit. 

And  thus  he  rose  disquieted 

Witli  sweet  rhymes  ringing  thronoh  his  head, 

And  in  the  forest  wandered. 


A     VISION      OF     rOETS.  l45 

Where,  sloping  up  the  daikest  glades, 
The  raooii  had  drawn  long  colonnades, 
Upon  whose  floor  the  verdure  fades 

To  a  faint  silver — pavement  fair 

The  antique  wood-nymphs  scarce  would  dare 

To  foot-print  o'er,  had  such  been  there, 

And  rather  sit  by  breathlessly, 
With  fear  in  their  large  eyes,  to  see 
The  consecrated  sight.     But  he. 

The  poet,  who  with  spirit-kiss 
Familiar,  had  long  claimed  for  his 
Whatever  earthl}'  beauty  is — 

Who  also  in  his  spirit  bore 

A  Beauty  passing  the  earth's  store. 

Walked  calmly  onward  evermore. 

His  aimless  thoughts  in  metre  went. 
Like  a  babe's  hand  without  intent 
Drawn  down  a  seven-stringed  instrument 

Nor  jarred  it  with  his  humor  as, 
With  a  faint  stirring  of  the  grass, 
4n  apparition  fair  did  pass. 

He  might  have  feared  another  time, 

But  all  things  fair  and  strange  did  chime 

With  his  thoughts  then,  as  rhyme  to  rhymt. 

An  angel  bad  not  startled  him. 
Alighted  from  Heaven's  bnrning  rim 
To  breathe  from  glory  in  the  Dim ; 

Much  less  a  lady  riding  slow 

Upon  a  palfrey  white  as  snow, 

And  smooth  as  a  snow-cloud  could  go. 

Full  upon  his  she  turned  her  face — 
"  What,  ho,  sir  poet !  dost  thou  pace 
Our  woods  at  night  in  gUostly  chase 

"  Of  some  fair  Dryad  of  old  tales. 
Who  chaunts  between  the  niglitingales, 
And  over  sleep  by  song  prevails  ?" 

She  smiled  ;  but  he  could  see  arise 
Her  soul  from  far  adown  her  eyes, 
Prepared  as  if  for  sacrifice. 
13  K 


H6  A      VISION      OF      POETS. 

She  looked  a  queen  wlio  secnieth  gay 
From  royal  gi-aee  alone.     "  Now,  nay," 
He  answered — "  slumber  passed  away 

"Compelled  b}^  instincts  in  my  head 
That  I  should  see  to-night,  instead 
Of  a  fair  nj^mph,  some  fairer  Dread." 

She  looked  up  quickly  to  the  sky 
And  spake: — "  The  moon's  regality 
Will  hear  no  praise  !  she  is  as  1. 

"  She  is  in  heaven,  and  I  on  earth  ; 
This  is  ni}'  kingdom — I  come  forth 
To  crown  all  i)oets  to  their  worth." 

He  brake  in  with  a  voice  that  moui-ned  ; 
"  To  their  worth,  lady '/     They  are  scorned 
By  men  the}'  sing  for,  till  inurned. 

"  To  their  worth  ?  Beauty  in  tlie  mind 
Leaves  the  heart  cold — and  love-refined 
Ambitions  make  the  world  unkind. 

"  The  boor  who  ploughs  the  dais}'  down, 
The  chief  whose  mortgage  of  renown 
Fixed  upon  graves,  has  bought  a  crown — 

"  Both  these  are  happier,  more  approved 
Than  poets ! — why  should  I  be  moved 
In  saying  .  .  .  both  are  more  beloved  ?" 

"  The  south  can  judge  not  of  the  north,  ' 
She  resumed  calmly  ;  "  I  come  forth 
To  crown  all  poets  to  their  worth. 

"  Yea,  veril}^  to  anoint  them  all 
With  blessed  oils  wliich  surely  shall 
Smell  sweeter  as  the  ages  fall." 

"  As  sweet,"  the  poet  said,  and  rung 

A  low  sad  laugh,  "  as  flowers  are,  sprung 

Out  of  their  graves  when  the}'  die  young, 

"  As  sweet  as  window  eglantine, 
Some  bough  of  which,  as  they  decline, 
The  hired  nurse  gathers  at  their  sign. 

"  As  sweet,  in  short,  as  perfumed  shroud 
Which  the  gay  Roman  maidens  sewed 
For  English  Keats,  singing  aloud." 


A      VISION      OF     POETS.  J  .j,  7 

The  lad}-  answered,  "  Yea,  as  sweet ! 
The  things  thou  namest,  being  complete 
In  fragrance  as  1  measure  it. 

"  Since  sweet  the  death-clothes  and  ^the  knell 
Of  him  who  having  lived,  dies  well — 
And  holy  sweet  tiie  asphodel. 

"  Stirred  softly  by  that  foot  of  his, 
When  he  treads  brave  on  all  that  is, 
Ir.to  the  world  of  souls  from  this. 

"  Since  sweet  the  tears,  dropped  at  the  door 
Of  tearless  Death — and  even  before. 
Sweet,  cojisecrated  evermore. 

"  What,  dost  thou  judge  it  a  strange  thing, 
That  poets,  crowned  for  vanquishing, 
Should  bear  some  dust  from  out  the  rino-^ 

"  Come  on  with  me,  come  on  with  me, 
And  learn  in  coming  !  let  me  free 
Thy  spirit  into  verity." 

She  ceased  :  her  palfrey's  paces  sent 
No  separate  noises  as  she  went ; 
'Twas  a  bee's  hum,  a  little  spent. 

And  while  the  poet  seemed  to  tread 
Along  the  drows}^  noise  so  made, 
The  forest  heaved  up  overhead 

Its  billowy  foliage  through  the  air. 
And  the  calm  stars  did  far  and  spare 
O'erswim  the  masses  everywhere; 

Save  when  the  overtopping  ])ines 

Did  bar  their  tremulous  light  with  lines 

All  fixed  and  black.     Now  the  moon  sLiues 

A  broader  glory.     You  may  see 

The  trees  grow  rarer  presently. 

The  air  blows  up  more  fresh  and  free. 

Until  they  come  from  dark  to  light. 

And  from  the  forest  to  the  sight 

Of  the  large  Heaven  heart,  bare  with  night — 

A  fiery  throb  in  every  star. 
Those  burning  arteries  that  are 
The  conduits  of  God's  life  afar! 


148  A      VISION      OF     POETS. 

A  wild  brown  moorlaml  underneath, 
And  four  pools  breaking  up  the  heatli 
With  white  low  gleamings,  blank  as  uojiO 

Beside  the  first  pool,  near  the  wood, 
A  dead  tree  in  set  horror  stood, 
Peeled  and  disjointed,  stark  as  rood. 

Since  thunder-stricken,  ^-ears  ago, 
Fixed  in  the  spectral  strain  and  throe 
Wherewith  it  struggled  from  the  blow 

A  monumental  tree,  alone. 

That  will  not  bend  in  storms,  nor  groan. 

But  break  off  sudden  like  a  stone. 

Its  lifeless  shadow  lies  oblique 
Upon  the  pool — where,  javelin-like. 
The  star-rays  quiver  while  they  stiike. 

"  Drink,"  said  the  lady,  very  still — 
"Be  holy  and  cold."     He  did  her  will, 
And  drank  the  starr}'  water  chill. 

The  next  pool  they  came  near  unto. 
Was  bare  of  trees :  there,  only  grew 
Straight  flags  and  lilies,  just  a  few, 

Which  sullen  on  the  water  sate 
And  leant  their  faces  on  the  flat, 
As  weary  of  the  starlight-state. 

"Drink,"  said  the  lady,  grave  and  slow, 
"  Wo7'kVs  vi<e  behoveth  thee  to  know." 
He  drank  the  bitter  wave  below. 

The  third  pool,  girt  with  thorny  bushes, 
And  flaunting  weeds,  and  reeds  and  rushes 
That  winds  sang  through  in  mournful  gusiiea 

Was  whitely  smeared  in  many  a  round 
B}^  a  slow  slime:  the  starlight  sw^ound 
Over  the  ghastly  light  it  found. 

"  Drink,"  said  the  lady,  sad  and  slow, 
"  WorhPs  lore  behoveth  thee  to  know." 
He  looked  to  her,  commanding  so. 

Her  brow  was  troubled,  but  her  eye 
Struck  clear  to  his  soul.     For  all  repW 
He  drank  the  water  suddenlj* — 


A      VISION      OF      POETS.  1 4S 

Then,  with  a  deathly  sickness,  passed 
Beside  a  fourtli  pool  and  the  last, 
Where  weights  of  shadow  were  down-cast 

From  3'ew  and  alder,  and  rank  trails 
Of  nightshade  clasping  the  trunk-scales, 
And  rtuiig  across  the  intervals 

From  yew  to  yew.     Who  dares  to  stoop 
Where  those  dank  branches  overdroop, 
Into  his  heart  the  chill  strikes  up; 

He  hears  a  silent  gliding  coil, 

The  snakes  strain  hard  against  the  soil, 

His  foot  slips  in  their  slimy  oil, 

And  toads  seem  crawling  on  his  hand, 
And  clinging  hats,  but  dimly  scanned, 
Full  iu  his  face  their  wings  expand. 

A  paleness  took  the  poet's  cheek  : 

"  Must  I  drink  here  1^''  he  seemed  to  seek 

The  lady's  will  with  utterance  meek. 

"Ay,  ay,"  slie  said,  "it  so  must  be," 
(And  this  time  she  spake  cheerfully) 
"Behoves  thee  know  WorWi^  cruelty.^' 

He  bowed  his  forehead  till  his  month 
Curved  in  the  wave,  and  drank  unloth. 
As  if  from  rivers  of  the  south. 

His  lips  sobbed  tlirongh  the  water  rank, 
His  heart  paused  in  him  while  he  drank, 
His  brain  beat  heart-like,  rose  and  sank, 

And  he  swooned  backward  to  a  dream. 
Wherein  he  lay  'twixt  gloom  aiid  gleam. 
With  Death  and  Life  at  each  extreme. 

And  spiritual  thunders,  born  of  soul, 
Not  clotul,  did  leap  from  mystic  pole 
And  o'er  him  roll  and  counter-roll. 

Crushing  their  echoes  reboant 

With  their  own  wheels.     Did  Heaven  so  grant 

His  spirit  a  sign  of  covenant? 

At  last  came  silence.     A  slow  kiss 
Did  crown  his  forehead  after  this. 
Eis  eyelids  flew  back  for  the  bliss. 
13* 


150  A      VISION      OF      POETS. 

The  lady  stood  beside  his  head, 
Smiling  a  thought,  with  hair  dispread. 
The  moonshine  seemed  dishevelled 

In  her  sleek  tresses  manifold, 
Like  Danae's  in  the  rain  of  old. 
That  dripped  with  melancholy  gold. 

But  SHE  was  holy,  pale,  and  high, 
As  one  who  saw  an  ecstasy 
Beyond  a  foretold  agony. 

"  Rise  up !"  said  she,  with  voice  where  song 
Eddied  through  speech — "rise  up!  be  stronof ! 
And  learn  how  right  avenges  wrong." 

The  poet  rose  up  on  his  feet. 
He  stood  before  an  altar  set 
For  sacrament,  with  vessels  meet ; 

And  mystic  altar-lights  which  shine 
As  if  their  flames  were  clnystalline 
Carved  flames  that  would  not  shrink  or  pine. 

The  altar  filled  the  centi-al  place 

Of  a  great  church,  and  toward  its  face 

Long  aisles  did  shoot  and  interlace. 

And  from  it  a  continuous  mist 

Of  incense  (round  the  edges  kissed 

By  a  3eilow  light  of  ameth^'st) 

Wound  upward  slowly  and  throbbingly, 
Cloud  within  cloud,  right  silverly. 
Cloud  above  cloud,  victoriously — 

Broke  full  against  the  arched  roof. 
And,  thence  refracting,  eddied  olf, 
And  floated  through  the  marble  woof 

Of  many  a  fine-wrought  architrave. 
Then,  poising  its  white  masses  brave, 
Swept  solemnly  down  aisle  and  nave ; 

Where  now  in  dark,  and  now  in  light. 
The  countless  columns,  glimmering  white, 
Seemed  leading  out  to  the  Infinite. 

Plunged  half-way  up  the  shaft  they  siiowed, 
In  that  pale  shifting  incense-cloud. 
Which  flowed  them  by,  and  overflowed, 


A      VISION     OF     POETS.  151 

Till  mist  and  marble  seemed  to  Vtleud, 
And  the  whole  temple,  at  the  end, 
With  its  own  incense  to  distend — 

The  arches,  like  a  giant's  l)Ow, 
To  bend  and  slacken — and  below, 
The  iiichdd  saints  to  come  and  go. 

Alone,  amid  the  shifting  scene, 
That  central  altar  stood  serene 
In  its  clear  stedfast  taper-sheen. 

Then  first,  the  poet  was  aware 
Of  a  chief  angel  standing  there 
Before  that  altar,  in  the  glare. 

His  eyes  were  dreadful,  for  you  saw 
That  Ihey  saw  God — his  lips  and  jaw, 
Grand-made  and  strong,  as  Sinai's  Law, 

The}''  could  enunciate  and  refrain 

From  vibratory  after-pain. 

And  his  brow's  height  was  sovereign 

On  the  vast  back-ground  of  his  wings 

Rises  his  image,  and  he  flings. 

From  each  plumed  arc,  pale  glitterings. 

And  fiery  flakes  (as  beateth  more 
Or  less,  the  angel-heart)  before 
And  round  him,  upon  roof  and  floor, 

Edging  with  fire  the  shifting  fumes; 
While  at  his  side,  'twixt  lights  and  glooms, 
The  phantasm  of  an  organ  booms. 

Extending  from  which  instrument 
An  angel,  right  and  left-way  bent. 
The  poet's  sight  grew  sentient 

Of  a  strange  compan^^  around 

And  toward  the  altar — pale  and  bound 

With  ba}'  above  the  e3'es  profound. 

Deathful  their  faces  were,  and  ^-et 
The  i)0wer  of  life  was  in  them  set — 
Never  forgot,  nor  to  forget. 

Sublime  significance  of  mouth, 

Dilated  nostril  full  of  youth, 

And  forehead  royal  with  the  truth. 


152  A      VISION      OF     POETS. 

These  faces  were  not  multiplied 
Bej'ond  3'our  count,  but  side  by  side 
Did  front  the  altar,  glorified. 

Still  as  a  vision,  yet  exprest 
Full  as  an  action — look  and  geste 
Of  buried  saint  in  risen  rest. 

The  poet  knew  thera.     Faint  and  dim 
His  spirits  seemed  to  sink  in  him, 
Then,  like  a  dolphin,  change  and  swim 

The  current.  These  were  poets  true, 
Who  died  for  Beauty,  as  martyrs  do 
For  Truth — the  ends  being  scarcely  two. 

God's  prophets  of  the  Beautiful 
These  poets  were  ;  of  iron  rule. 
The  rugged  cilix,  serge  of  wool. 

Here,  Homer,  with  the  broad  suspense 
Of  thunderous  brows,  and  lips  intense 
Of  garrulous  god-innocence. 

There,  Shakspeare,  on  whose  forehead  climb 
The  crowns  o'  the  world.  Oh,  eyes  sublime, 
With  tears  and  laughters  for  all  time ! 

Here,  J^schylus,  the  women  swooned' 

To  see  so  awful,  when  he  •'''•owned 

As  the  gods  did ! — he  standeth  crowned. 

Euripides,  with  close  and  mild 
Scholastic  lips — that  could  be  wild, 
And  laugh  or  sob  out  like  a  child 

Even  in  the  classes.     Sophocles, 

With  that  king's  look  wliich,  down  the  trees, 

Followed  the  dark  efligics 

Of  the  lost  Theban.     Hesiod  old, 

Who,  somewhat  blind  and  deaf  and  cold, 

Cared  most  for  gods  and  bulls.     And  bold 

Electric  Pindar,  quick  as  fear. 

With  race-dust  on  his  cheeks,  and  clear 

Slant  startled  eyes  that  seem  to  hear 

The  chariot  rounding  the  last  goal, 
To  hurtle  past  it  in  his  soul 
And  Sappho,  with  that  gloriole 


A      VISION      OF      POETS.  1 53 

Of  ebon  hah'  on  calmed  brows. 
0  poet-woniau  !  none  foregoes 
The  leap,  atlaining  the  repose  I 

Theocritus,  with  glittering-  locks 
Dropt  side  way,  as  betwixt  the  rocks 
He  watched  the  visionary  flocks. 

And  Aristophanes,  who  took 

The  world  with  mirth,  and  laughter-struck 

The  hollow  caves  of  Thought  and  woke 

The  infinite  echoes  hid  in  each. 

And  Virgil;  shade  of  Mantuan  beech 

Did  help  the  shade  of  bay  to  reach 

And  knit  around  his  forehead  high. 

For  his  gods  wore  less  majesty 

Than  his  brown  bees  hummed  deathlessly. 

Lucretius — nobler  than  his  mood  ; 

AVho  dropped  his  plummet  down  the  broad 

Deep  universe,  and  said  "  No  God." 

Finding  no  bottom  :   he  denied 
Divinely  the  divine,  and  died 
Chief  poet  on  the  Tiber-side 

By  grace  of  God  !  his  face  is  stern, 
As  one  compelled,  in  spite  of  scorn, 
To  teach  a  truth  he  would  not  learn. 

And  Ossian,  dimly  seen  or  guessed: 
Once  counted  greater  tiian  the  rest. 
When  mountain-winds  blew  out  his  vest. 

And  Spenser  drooped  his  dreaming  head 
(With  languid  sleep-smile  you  had  said 
From  his  own  verse  engendered) 

On  Ariosto's,  till  they  ran 
Their  curls  in  one. — The  Italian 
Shot  nimbler  heat  of  bolder  man 

From  his  fine  lids.     And  Dante  stern 
And  sweet,  whose  spirit  was  an  urn 
For  wine  and  milk  poured  out  in  turn. 

Hard-souled  Alfieri ;  and  fancy-willed 
Boiardo — who  with  laughter  filled 
The  pauses  of  the  jostled  shield. 


154  A      VISION     OF     POETS. 

And  Berni,  with  a  hand  stx-etched  out 
To  sleek  that  storm.     And,  not  without 
The  wreatli  lie  died  in,  and  the  doubt 

He  died  by,  Tasso !  bard  and  lover, 
Whose  visions  were  too  tliiu  to  cover 
The  face  of  a  false  woman  over. 

And  soft  Racine — and  grave  Corneille, 

The  orator  of  rh3-nies,  whose  wail 

Scarce  shook  his  purple.     And  Petrarch  pale, 

From  whose  brainlighted  heart  was  thrown 
A  thousand  thoughts  beneath  the  sun. 
Each  lucid  with  the  name  of  One. 

And  Camoens,  with  that  look  he  had, 
Compelling  India's  Genius  sad 
From  the  wave  through  the  Lusiad — 

The  murmurs  of  the  storm-cape  ocean 

Indrawn  in  vibrative  emotion 

Along  the  verse.     And  while  devotion 

In  his  wild  63-68  fantastic  shone 
Under  the  tonsure  blown  upon 
By  airs  celestial. — Calderon. 

And  bold  De  Yega — who  breathed  quick 
Terse  after  verse,  till  death's  old  trick 
Put  pause  to  life  and  rhetoric. 

And  Goethe — v/ith  that  reaching  eye 
His  soul  reached  out  from,  far  and  high, 
And  fell  from  inner  entit_y. 

And  Schiller,  with  heroic  front, 
Worthy  of  Plutarch's  kiss  upon  't, 
Too  large  for  wreath  of  modern  wont. 

And  Chaucer,  with  his  infantine 
Familiar  clasp  of  things  divine. 
That  mark  upon  his  lip  is  wine. 

Here,  Milton's  eyes  strike  piercing-dim. 
_/  The  shapes  of  suns  and  stars  did'swim 
Like  clouds  from  them,  and  granted  him 

God  for  sole  vision.     Cowley,  there; 

Whose  active  fancy  debonaire 

Drew  straws  like  amber — foul  to  fair. 


A      VISION      OF      POET  Si.  155 

Drayton  and  Browne — -wiUi  smiles  the}'  drew 
From  outward  nature,  still  kept  new 
From  their  own  inward  nature  true. 

And  jNIarlowe,  Webster,  Fletcher, J3en — 
Whose  fire-hearts  sowed  our  furrows  when 
The  world  was  worthy  of  such  men.     - 

And  Burns,  with  pungent  i)assionings 
Set  in  his  eyes.     Deep  lyric  springs 
Are  of  the  lire-mount's  issuings. 

And  Shellev,  in  his  white  ideal, 

All  statue-blind!     And  Keats  the  real 

Adonis,  with  the  hymeneal 

Fresh  vernal  buds  half  sunk  between 

Ills  youthful  curls,  kissed  straight  and  sheen 

In  his  Rome-grave,  by  Venus  queen. 

And  poor,  proud  Byron — sad  as  grave, 
And  salt  as  life  :  forlornly  brave, 
And  quivering  with  the  dart  he  drave. 

And  visionar}'  Coleridge,  who 

Did  sweep  his  thoughts  as  angels  do 

Their  wings,  with  cadence  up  the  Blue. 

These  poets  faced,  and  many  more, 

The  lighted  altar  looming  o'er 

The  clouds  of  incense  dim  and  hoar: 

And  all  their  faces,  in  the  lull 

Of  natural  things,  looked  wonderful 

AVith  life  and  death  and  deathless  rule. 

All,  still  as  stone,  and  yet  intense  ; 

As  if  by  spirit's  vehemence 

That  stone  were  carved,  and  not  b}^  sense. 

But  where  the  heart  of  each  should  beat. 

There  seemed  a  wound  instead  of  it, 

From  whence  the  blood  dropped  to  their  feet, 

Drop  after  drop — dropped  heavily, 
As  century  follows  century 
Into  the  deep  eternity. 

Then  said  the  lady — ^and  her  word 
Came  distant,  as  wide  waves  were  stirred 
Between  her  and  the  ear  that  heard, 


156  A      VISION      OF     POETS, 

"  World's  use  is  cold,  world'' h  love  is  vain, 
WorWs  cruelty  is  bitter  bane, 
But  pain  is  not  tlie  fruit  of  pain. 

"  Harken,  O  poet,  whom  I  led 

From  the  dark  wood.      Dismissing  dread, 

Now  hear  this  angel  in  in}'  stead. 

"  His  organ's  clavier  strikes  alon^ 
These  poets'  hearts,  sonorous,  strong. 
They  gave  him  without  count  of  wrong — - 

"  A  diapason  whence  to  guide 

Up  to  God's  feet,  from  these  who  died, 

An  anthem  fully  glorilied. 

"Whereat  God's  blessing  .  .  .  Ibarak  {']^2-) 
Breathes  back  this  music — folds  it  back 
About  the  earth  in  vapory  rack, 

"  And  men  walk  in  it,  crying,  '  Lo, 
The  world  is  wider,  and  we  know 
The  ver}'  heavens  look  brighter  so. 

"  '  The  stars  move  statelier  round  the  edge 
Of  the  silver  spheres,  and  give  in  pledge 
Their  light  for  nobler  privilege. 

"  '  No  little  flower  but  joys  of  grieves, 
Full  life  is  rustling  in  tlie  sheaves. 
Full  spirit  sweeps  the  forest-leaves.' 

"  So  works  this  music  on  the  earth, 
God  so  admits  it,  sends  it  forth, 
To  add  another  worth  to  worth — 

"  A  new  creation-bloom  that  rounds 
The  old  creation,  and  expounds 
His  Beautiful  in  tuneful  sounds. 

"  Now  harken  !  "     Then  the  poet  gai:ed 
Upon  the  angel  glorious-faced, 
Whose  hand,  majestically  raised, 

Floated  across  the  organ-ke^ys, 

Like  a  pale  moon  o'er  murmuring  seas, 

With  no  touch  but  with  influences. 

Then  rose  and  fell  (with  swell  and  &  wound 
Of  shapeless  noises  wandering  round 
A  concord  which  at  last  they  found) 


A     VISION     OF     rOETS.  157 

Those  mystic  keys — tlio  tones  were  mixed, 
Dim,  faint,  and  thrilled  and  throbbed   l)etwixt 
The  incomplete  and  the  nnfixcd: 

And  therein  miohty  minds  were  heard 
In  mighty  ninsings,  inly  stirred, 
And  strnggling  outward  for  a  word. 

Until  these  surges,  having  run 
This  way  and  tliat,  gave  out  as  one 
An  Aphrodite  of  sweet  tune — 

A  Harmony,  that,  finding  vent, 
Upward  in  grand  ascension  went, 
"Winged  to  a  heavenly  argument — • 

Up,  upward  !  like  a  saint  who  strips 
The  shroud  back  from  his  ej-es  and  lips, 
And  rises  in  apocalypse. 

A  harmony  sublime  and  plain, 
Which  cleft  (as  flying  swan,  the  rain — • 
Throwing  the  drops  off  with  a  strain 

Of  her  white  wing)  those  undertones 
Of  perplext  chords,  and  soared  at  once 
And  struck  out  from  the  starry  thrones 

Their  several  silver  octaA'es  as 

It  passed  to  God.     The  music  was 

Of  divine  stature — strong  to  pass. 

And  those  who  heard  it,  understood 
Something  of  life  in  s[)irit  and  blood — 
Something  of  nature's  fair  and  good. 

And  while  it  sounded,  those  great  souls 
Did  thrill  as  racers  at  the  coals, 
And  burn  in  all  their  aureoles. 

But  she,  the  lady,  as  vapor-bonnd. 
Stood  calmly  in  the  joy  of  sound — 
Like  Nattire  with  the  showers  around. 

And  when  it  ceased,  the  blood  which  fell, 
Again,  alone  grew  audilile, 
Tolling  the  silence  as  a  bell. 

The  sovran  angel  lifted  high 
His  hand,  and  spake  out  sovranly. 
"  Tried  poets,  hearken  and  reply  ) 
U 


158  A      VISION      OP      POETS. 

"  Give  me  true  answers.     If  we  grant 
That  not  to  suffer,  is  to  want 
The  conscience  of  tlie  jubilant — 

"  If  ignorance  of  anguish  is 

But  ignorance — and  mortals  miss 

Far  prospects,  by  a  level  1)liss — 

"  If,  as  two  colors  must  be  viewed 
In  a  visible  image,  mortals  should 
aSTeed  good  and  evil,  to  see  good — 

"  If  to  speak  nobly  comprehends 

To  feel  profoundly — if  the  ends 

Of  power  and  suffering,  Nature  blends^- 

"  If  poets  on  the  tripod  must 
Writhe  like  the  Pythian,  to  make  just 
Their  oracles,  and  merit  trust — 

"  If  every  A'atic  word  that  sweeps 
To  change  the  world,  must  pale  their  lips, 
•And  leave  their  own  souls  in  eclipse — 

"  If  to  search  deep  the  univei'se 

Must  pierce  the  searcher  with  a  curse — 

Because  that  bolt  (in  man's  reverse) 

"  Was  shot  to  the  heart  o'  the  wood,  and  lies 
Wedged  deepest  in  the  best — if  eyes 
That  look  for  visions  and  surprise 

"  From  influent  angels,  must  shut  down 
Their  lids  first,  upon  sun  and  moon, 
The  head  asleep  upon  a  stone — 

"  If  One  who  did  redeem  you  back. 
By  His  own  loss,  from  final  wrack, 
Did  consecrate  b^-  touch  and  track 

"  Those  temporal  sorrows,  till  the  taste 

Of  brackish  waters  of  the  waste 

Is  salt  with  tears  He  dropt  too  fast— 

"  If  all  the  crowns  of  earth  must  wound 
With  prickings  of  the  thorns  He  found — 
If  saddest  sighs  swell  sweetest  sound — 

"  What  say  VQ  unto  this  ? — refuse 
This  baptism  in  salt  water  ? — choose 
Calm  breasts,  mute  lips,  and  labor  loose  ? 


A      VISION      OF      POETS.  15J 

"  Or,  oh,  ye  gifted  givers  !  3'e 
Who  give  your  liberal  hearts  to  me, 
To  make  the  world  this  harmoii}', 

"  Are  ye  resigned  that  they  be  spent 
To  such  world's  help  ?" — 

The  Spirits  bend, 
Their  awful  brows  and  said — ■"  Content." 

Content  I  it  sounded  like  amen, 
Said  by  a  choir  of  mourning  men  ; 
An  aflirmation  full  of  pain 

And  patience — ay,  of  glorying 
And  adoration — as  a  king 
Might  seal  an  oath  for  governing. 

Then  said  the  angel — and  his  face 
Lightened  abroad,  until  the  place 
Grew  larger  for  a  moment's  space — 

The  long  aisles  flashing  out  in  light, 
And  nave  and  transept,  columns  white 
And  arches  crossed,  being  clear  to  sight 

As  if  the  roof  were  off,  and  all 
Stood  in  the  moon-sun — "  Lo  !  I  call 
To  other  hearts  as  liberal. 

"This  pedal  strikes  out  in  the  air: 
My  instrument  has  room  to  bear 
Still  fuller  strains  and  perfecter. 

"  Herein  is  room,  and  shall  be  room 
While  Time  lasts,  for  new  hearts  to  come 
Consummating  while  the}'  consume. 

"  What  living  man  will  bring  a  gift 
Of  his  own  heart,  and  help  to  lift 
The  tune  ? — the  race  is  to  the  swift." 

So  asked  the  angel.     Straight  the  while, 

A  company  came  up  the  aisle 

With  measured  step  and  sorted  smile  ; 

Cleaving  the  incense-clouds  that  rise. 
With  winking  unaccustomed  e3'es. 
And  love-locks  smelling  sweet  of  spice. 


IfiO  A     VISION      OF     POETS. 

One  bore  his  head  above  the  rest, 
As  if  the  world  were  dispossessed. 
And  One  did  pillow  chin  on  breast, 

Bright  langnid — and  as  he  shonld  faint, 
One  shook  his  curls  across  his  paint, 
And  moralised  on  worldly  taint. 

One,  slantijig  up  his  face,  did  wink 
The  salt  riieum  to  the  eyelid's  brink. 
To  think — O  gods  !  or — not  to  think  ! 

Some  trod  out  stealthily  and  slow, 
As  if  the  sun  woiild  fall  in  snow 
If  they  walked  to  instead  of  fro. 

And  some,  with  conscious  ambling  free, 
Did  shake  their  bells  right  daintily 
On  hand  and  foot,  for  harmony. 

And  some,  composing  sudden  sighs 
In  attitudes  of  point  device, 
Rehearsed  impromptu  agonies. 

And  when  this  company  drew  near 
The  spirits  crowned,  it  might  appear 
Submitted  to  a  ghastly  fear. 

As  a  sane  e^'e  in  master-passion 
Constrains  a  maniac  to  the  fashion. 
Of  hideous  maniac  imitation 

In  the  least  geste — the  dropping  low 
0'  tlie  lid,  the  wrinkling  of  the  brow. 
Exaggerate  with  mock  and  mow — 

So,  mastered  was  that  company 
B}^  the  crowned  vision  utterl^^ 
Swayed  to  a  maniac  mockery. 

One  dulled  his  eyeballs,  as  they  achtd 
With  Homer's  forehead,  though  he  lacked 
An  inch  of  any.     And  one  racked 

His  lower  lip  with  restless  tooth, 
As  Pindar's  rushing  words  forsooth 
Were  pent  behind  it.   '  One,  his  smooth 

Pink  cheeks,  did  rumple  passionate. 
Like  ^schylus — and  tried  to  i)rate 
On  trolling  tongue,  of  fate  and  fate. 


A     VISION     OF     POETS.  16i 

One  set  her  c^'cs  like  Sappho's — or 
Any  light  woman's!  one  forbore 
Like  Dante,  or  an}^  man  as  poor 

In  mirth,  to  let  a  smile  nndo 

Mis  hard-shut  lips.     And  one  that  drew 

Sour  humors  from  his  mother,  blew 

His  sunken  cheeks  out  to  the  size 
Of  most  unnatural  jollities, 
Because  Anacreon  looked  jest-wise. 

So  with  the  rest. — It  was  a  sight 

A  great  world-laughter  would  requite, 

Or  great  world-wrath,  with  equal  right 

Out  came  a  speaker  from  that  crowd 
To  speak  for  all — in  sleek  and  proud 
Exordial  periods,  while  he  bowed 

His  knee  before  the  angel. — "  Thus, 
0  angel  who  hast  called  for  us, 
We  bring  thee  service  emulous — 

"  Fit  service  for  sufficient  soul. 
Hand-service,  to  receive  world's  dole, 
Lip-service,  in  world's  ear  to  roll 

"Adjusted  concords — soft  enow 

To  hear  the  wine-cups  passing,  through, 

And  not  too  grave  to  spoil  the  show. 

"  Thou,  certes,  when  thou  askest  more, 
0  sapient  angel,  leanest  o'er 
The  window-sill  of  metaphor. 

"  To  give  our  hearts  up  !  fie  !  that  rage 
Barbaric  antedates  the  age. 
It  is  not  done  on  any  stage. 

"  Because  j^our  scald  or  gleeman  went 
With  seven  or  nine-stringed  instrument 
Upon  his  back — must  ours  be  bent  ? 

"We  are  not  pilgrims,  by  3'our  leave; 
No,  nor  3'et  martyrs  !  if  wc  grieve, 
It  is  to  rhyme  to  .  .  .  su miner  eve. 

"  And  if  we  labor,  it  shall  be. 
As  suiteth  best  with  our  degree, 
In  after-dinner  reverie." 
14*  L 


J  62  A      VISION      OF     POETS. 

More  yet  that  speaker  would  have  said, 
Poising,  between  his  smiles  fair-fed, 
Each  separate  phrase  till  finished. 

But  all  the  foreheads  of  those  born 
And  dead  true  poets  flashed  with  scorn 
Betwixt  the  bay  leaves  round  them  worn — 

Ay,  jetted  such  brave  fire,  that  they, 
The  new-come,  shrank  aud  paled  away, 
Like  leaden  ashes  when  the  day 

Strikes  on  the  hearth.     A  spirit-blast, 
A  presence  known  by  power,  at  last 
Took  them  up  mutely — thej'  had  passed. 

And  he,  our  pilgrim  poet,  saw 
Only  their  places,  in  deep  awe — 
What  time  the  angel's  smile  did  draw 

His  gazing  upward.     Smiling  on, 
The  angel  in  the  angel  shone, 
Revealing  glor}''  in  benison. 

Till,  ripened  in  the  light  which  shut 
The  poet  in,  his  si)irit  mute 
Dropped  sudden,  as  a  perfect  fruit. 

He  fell  before  the  angel's  feet. 
Saying — "  If  what  is  true  is  sweet, 
In  something  I  may  compass  it. 

"  For,  where  my  worthiness  is  poor, 
;My  will  stands  richly  at  the  door, 
To  pa}"^  short  comings  evermore. 

"  Accept  me,  therefore.     Not  for  price. 
And  not  for  pride,  my  sacrifice 
Is  tendered  1  for  my  soul  is  nice 

"  And  will  beat  down  those  dust}'  seeds 
Of  bearded  corn,  if  she  succeeds 
In  soaring  while  the  covej'  feeds. 

"  I  soar — I  am  drawn  up  like  the  lark 
To  its  white  cloud.     So  high  my  mark, 
Albeit  my  wing  is  small  and  dark. 

"  I  ask  no  wages — seek  no  fame. 

Sew  me,  for  shroud  round  face  and  name, 

God's  banner  of  the  oriflamme. 


A      VISION     OP      POETS.  16? 

"  I  only  ^voul(l  luivo  leave  to  loose 
(In  tears  and  blood,  if  so  He  ehoose) 
Mine  inward  nuisic  out  to  use, 

"  I  onl}^  would  be  S})ent — in  pain 
And  loss,  percluince — but  not  in  vain, 
Upon  the  sweetness  of  that  strain  ! 

"  Only  project,  beyond  the  bound 
Of  mine  own  life,  so  lost  and  found, 
My  voice,  and  live  on  in  its  sound  ! 

"  Onl}'  embrace  and  be  embraced 
By  fiery  ends  -whereby  to  waste, 
And  light  God's  future  with  my  past." 

The  angel's  smile  grew  more  divine, 
The  mortal  speaking — ay,  its  shine 
Swelled  fuller,  like  a  choir-note  fine, 

Till  the  broad  glor^^  round  his  broAV 
Did  vibrate  with  the  light  below  ; 
But  what  he  said,  1  do  not  know. 

Nor  know  I  if  the  man  who  jDrayed, 

Rose  up  accepted,  unforbade, 

From  the  church-floor  where  he  was  laid — 

Nor  if  a  listening  life  did  run 
Through  the  king-poets,  one  bj^  one 
Rejoicing  in  a  worthy  son. 

My  soul,  which  might  have  seen,  grew  blind 
By  what  it  looked  on :  1  can  find 
No  certain  count  of  things  behind. 

I  saw  alone,  dim,  white,  and  grand 
As  in  a  di'eam,  the  angel's  hand 
Stretched  forth  in  gesture  of  command 

Straight  through  the  haze.     And  so,  as  erst, 
A  strain  more  noble  than  the  first 
Mused  in  the  organ,  and  outburst. 

With  giant  march,  from  floor  to  roof 
Rose  the  full  notes — now  parted  off 
In  pauses  massively  aloof 

Like  measured  thunders — now  rejoined 

In  concords  of  m,j-sterious  kind 

Which  fused  together  sense  and  mind — - 


I6i  A      VISION      OF      POETS 

Kow  flashing  sharp  on  sharp  along 
Exultant,  in  a  mountins:  throng — 
Now  dying  off  to  a  low  song 

Fed  upon  minors  ! — wavelike  sounds 
Re-eddying  into  silver  rounds, 
Enlarging  liberty  with  bounds. 

And  everj'  rhj-thm  that  seemed  to  close 
Survived  in  confluent  underflows 
Symphonious  with  the  next  that  rose. 

Thus  the  whole  strain  being  multiplied 
And  greatened — with  its  glorified 
Wings  shot  abroad  from  side  to  side — 

Waved  backward  (as  a  wind  might  wave 
A  Brocken  mist,  and  with  as  l)ra\e 
Wild  roaring)  arch  and  architrave, 

Aisle,  transept,  column,  marble  wall, 
Then  swelling  outward,  prodigal 
Of  aspiration  beyond  thrall, 

Soared — and  drew  up  with  it  the  whole 

Of  this  said  vision — as  a  soul 

Is  raised  b}'  a  thought.     And  as  a  scroll 

Of  bright  devices  is  unrolled 

Still  upward,  with  a  gradual  gold — 

So  rose  the  vision  manifold. 

Angel  and  organ,  and  the  I'ouncl 

Of  spirits,  solemnized  and  crowned — 

While  the  freed  clouds  of  incense  wound 

Ascending,  following  in  their  track. 
And  glimmering  faintly,  like  tlie  rack 
O'  the  moon  in  her  own  liglit  cast  back 

And  as  that  solemn  Dream  withdrew. 
The  lady's  kiss  did  fall  anew 
Cold  on  the  poet's  brow  as  dew. 

And  that  same  kiss  which  bound  him  flr.st 
Beyond  the  senses,  now  reversed 
Its  own  law,  and  most  subtly  pierced 

His  spirit  with  the  sense  of  things 
Sensual  and  present.  Yanisliings 
Of  glory,  with  ^Eolian  wings 


A      VISIOX      OP     POETS  jCiJ 

Struck  him  and  passed  :  the  hxd3''s  face 
Did  melt  back  in  the  chrysopras 
Of  the  orient  morning  sky  that  was 

Yet  dear  of  lark — and  there  and  so 
She  molted,  as  a  star  might  do, 
Still  smiling  as  she  melted — slow. 

Smiling  so  slow,  he  seemed  to  see 
Her  smile  the  last  thing,  gloriously-, 
Beyond  her — far  as  memory. 

Then  he  looked  round  :  he  was  alone. 
lie  lay  before  tlie  breaking  sun, 
As  Jacob  at  the  Bethel  stone. 

And  thought's  entangled  skein  being  wound, 

He  knew  the  moorland  of  his  swound. 

And  the  pale  pools  that  smeared  the  ground  ;  • 

The  far  wood-pines,  like  offing  ships — 
The  fourth  pool's  yew  anear  him  drips, 
TTorWs  cruelty  attaints  his  lips, 

And  still  he  tastes  it — bitter  still — 
Through  all  tiiat  glorious  possible 
He  had  the  sight  of  present  ill. 

Yet  rising  calmly  up  and  slowly 
With  such  a  cheer  as  scorneth  folly, 
A  mild  delightsome  melancholy. 

He  journeyed  homeAvard  through  the  wood, 
And  prayed  along  the  solitude, 
Betwixt  the  pines — "  0  God,  my  God  !" 

The  golden  morning's  open  flowings 

Did  sway  the  trees  to  murmurous  bowings, 

In  metric  chaut  of  blessed  poems. 

And  passing  homeward  through  the  wood, 
He  prayed  along  the  solitude — 
Thou,  Poet-God,  are  great  and  good! 

"  And  though  we  must  have,  and  have  had 
Right  reason  to  be  earthly  sad — 
Thou,  Poet-God,  are  great  and  glad." 


166  A     VISION     OF     POETS. 


CONCLUSION. 

Jjife  treads  on  life,  and  heart  on  heart. 
AVe  press  too  close  in  church  and  mart, 
To  keep  a  dream  or  grave  apart. 

And  I  was  'ware  of  walking  down 
That  same  green  forest  where  had  gone 
The  poet-pilgrim.     One  by  one 

I  traced  his  footsteps.     From  the  east 
A  red  and  tender  radiance  pressed 
Through  the  near  trees,  until  1  guessed 

The  sun  behind  shone  full  and  round  ; 
While  up  the  leafiness  profound 
.A  wind  scarce  old  enough  for  sound 

Stood  ready  to  blow  on  me  when 

I  turned  that  way;  and  now  and  then 

The  birds  sung  and  brake  off  again 

To  shake  their  pretty  fe\ithers  dry 
Of  the  dew  sliding  dropping!}' 
From  the  leaf-edges,  and  apply 

Back  to  their  song.     'Twixt  dew  and  bird 
So  sweet  a  silence  ministered, 
God  seemed  to  use  it  for  a  word. 

Yet  morning  souls  did  leap  and  run 
In  all  things,  as  the  least  had  won 
A  joyous  insight  of  the  sun. 

And  no  one  looking  round  the  wood 
Could  help  confessing  as  he  stood, 
This  Poet-God  ?.s-  glad  and  good, 

But  hark  !  a  distant  sound  that  grows  ! 
A  heaving,  sinking  of  the  boughs — 
A  rustling  murmur,  not  of  those  ! 

A  breezy  noise,  which  is  not  breeze  ! 
And  white-clad  children  by  degrees 
Steal  out  in  troops  among  the  trees. 

Fair  little  children,  morning-bright, 
With  faces  grave,  ^-et  soft  to  sight, 
Expressive  of  restrained  delight. 


A      VISION      OF      I'OETS.  IGI 

Some  plucked  the  palm-boughs  within  reach, 
And  others  leaped  up  high  to  catch 
The  upper  boughs,  and  shake  from  each 

A  rain  of  dew,  till,  Avetted  so, 

The  child  who  held  the  branch  let  go, 

And  it  swang  backward  with  a  flow 

Of  faster  drippings.     Then  I  knew 

The  children  laughed — but  the  laugh  flew 

From  its  own  chirrup,  as  might  do 

A  frightened  song-bird  :  and  a  child 
Who  seemed  the  chief,  said  very  mild, 
"Hush!  keep  this  morning  undefiled." 

His  eyes  rebuked  them  from  calm  spheres  I 
His  soul  upon  his  brow  appears 
In  waiting  for  more  holy  years. 

I  called  the  child  to  me  and  said, 

"  What  are  your  palms  for  T' — "  To  be  spread, 

He  answered,  "  on  a  poet  dead.  " 

"  The  poet  died  last  month,  and  now 
The  world  which  had  been  somewhat  slow 
In  honoring  his  living  brow, 

"  Commands  the  palms — They  must  be  strewn 
On  his  new  marble  very  soon, 
In  a  procession  of  the  town," 

I  sighed  and  said,  "Did  he  foresee 
Any, such  honor  ?  "     "  Yerily 
I  cannot  tell  3'ou,"  answered  he. 

"But  this  I  know — I  fain  would  la}' 
Mine  own  head  down,  another  da}''. 
As  he  did —  with  the  fame  away. 

"  A  lily,  a  friend's  hand  had  plucked, 
Lay  by  his  death-l)ed,  which  he  looked 
As  deep  down  as  a  bee  had  sucked, 

"  Then,  turning  to  the  lattice,  gazed 
O'er  hill  and  river,  and  upraised 
His  eyes  illumined  and  amazed 

"  With  the  world's  beauty,  up  to  God. 
Re-offering  on  their  iris  broad 
The  images  of  things  bestowed 


I6&  A     VISION      OP     POETS. 

"  By  the  chief  Poet—'  God! '  he  cried, 

"  '  Be  praised  for  anguish,  wliicli  has  tried ; 

For  beauty,  which  has  satisfied  : — 

"  For  this  world's  presence,  half  within 
And  half  without  me-^  thought  and  scene — 
This  sense  of  Being  and  Having  been. 

"  I  thank  Thee  that  my  soul  hatli  room 

For  Thy  grand  world.     Both  guests  may  come- 

Beaut}',  to  soul — Body,  to  tomb. 

"  I  am  content  to  be  so  weak. 

Put  strength  into  the  words  I  speak, 

And  I  am  strong  in  what  I  seek. 

"  I  am  content  to  be  so  bare 

Before  the  archers,  everywhere 

My  wounds  being  stroked  b}'-  heavenly  air. 

"  I  laid  my  soul  before  Thy  feet,        / 
Tiiat  Ira.ages  of  fair  and  sweet 
Should  walk  to  other  men  on  it. 

"  I  am  content  to  feel  the  step 

Of  each  pure  Image  ! — let  those  keep 

To  mandragore,  who  care  to  sleep. 

"  I  am  content  to  touch  the  brink 
Of  the  other  goblet,  and  I  think 
My  bitter  drink  a  wholesome  drink. 

"  Because  vay  portion  was  assigned 
"Wholesome  and  bitter — Thou  art  kind, 
And  I  am  blessed  to  my  mind. 

"  Gifted  for  giving,  I  receive 

The  may  thorn,  and  its  scent  outgive. 

I  grieve  not  that  I  once  did  grieve. 

"  In  my  large  joy  of  sight  and  touch 
Beyond  what  others  count  for  such, 
I  am  content  to  sutler  much. 

"J  knoxo — is  all  the  mourner  saitli, 
Knowledge  by  suffering  eutereth; 
And  Life  is  perfected  by  Death." 

The  child  spake  nobly.     Strange  to  hear, 
His  infantine  soft  accents  clear 
Charged  with  high  meanings,  did  appear, 


A     VISION      OF     POETS.  163 

And  fair  to  see  his  form  and  face, 
Winged  out  with  wliiteness  and  pure  grace 
From  the  green  darkness  of  the  place. 

Behind  his  liead  a  palm-tree  grew: 

An  orient,  beam  which  pierced  it  through 

Transversely  on  his  forehead  drew 

The  figure  of  a  palm-branch  biown 
Traced  on  its  brightness  up  and  down 
In  fine  fair  lines — a  shadow-crown. 

Guido  might  paint  his  angels  so — 
A  little  angel,  taught  to  go 
With  holy  words  to  saints  below. 

Such  innocence  of  action  yet 

Significance  of  object  met 

In  his  whole  bearing  strong  and  sweet. 

And  all  the  children,  the  whole  band, 
Did  round  in  rosy  reverence  stand, 
Each  with  a  palm-bough  in  his  hand. 

"And  so  he  died,"  I  whispered. — "  Nay, 
Not  so,^^  the  childish  voice  did  sa}'' — 
"That  poet  turned  him,  first,  to  pra^'' 

"  In  silence,  and  God  heard  the  rest 
'Twixt  the  sun's  footsteps  down  the  west. 
Then  he  called  one  who  loved  him  best, 

"Yea,  he  called  softly  through  the  room 
(His  voice  was  weak  ^et  tender) — '  Come,' 
He  said,  '  come  nearer  !     Let  the  bloom 

"  '  Of  Life  grow  over,  undenied, 

This  bridge  of  Death,  which  is  not  wide — 

I  shall  be  soon  at  the  other  side. 

"  '  Come,  kiss  me  !  '  So  the  one  in  truth 
Who  loved  him  best — in  love,  not  truth. 
Bowed  down  and  kissed  him  mouth  to  mouth 

"  And,  in  that  kiss  of  Love,  was  won 
Life's  manumission.  All  was  done — 
The  mouth  that  kissed  last,  kissed  alone. 

"  But  in  the  foriner,  confluent  kiss. 
The  same  was  sealed,  I  think,  by  His, 
To  words  of  truth  and  uprightness." 
15 


no  A      \JSION      OF      POETS. 

The  cliild's  voice  trembled — his  lips  shook 
Like  a  rose  leaning  o'er  a  brook, 
Which  vibrates  though  it  is  not  struck. 

"  And  who,"  I  asked,  a  little  moved 
Yet  curious-e3'ed,  "  was  this  that  loved 
And  kissed  him  last,  as  it  behoved  ?  " 

"  /,"  softl3'  said  the  child ;  and  then, 
"  /,"  said  he  louder,  once  again. 
"  His  son — my  rank  is  among  men. 

"  And  now  that  men  exalt  his  name 
I  come  to  gather  palms  with  them, 
That  holy  Love  naxy  hallow  Fame. 

"  He  did  not  die  alone,  nor  should 
His  memory  live  so,  'mid  these  rude 
World -praisers — a  worse  solitude. 

"  Me,  a  voice  calleth  to  that  tomb 

Where  these  are  strewing  branch  and  bloom, 

Sa3'ing,  come  nearer/ — and  I  come. 

"  Glory  to  God  1 "  resumed  he, 

And  his  eyes  smiled  for  victor^' 

O'er  their  own  tears  which  I  could  see 

Fallen  ou  the  palm,  down  cheek  and  chin — . 
"  That  poet  now  has  entered  in 
The  place  of  rest  which  is  not  sin. 

"And  while  he  rests,  his  songs  in  troops 
Walk  up  and  down  our  earthl3-  slopes, 
Companioned  b}-  divine*  Hopes." 

"But  thou,^^  I  murmured — to  engage 
The  uiiild's  speech  farther — "hast  an  age 
Too  tender  for  this  orphanage." 

"  Glory  to  God— to  God  !  "  he  saith, 
"  Knoavledge  by  suffering  entereth, 
And  Life  is  perfected  by  Death  " 


THE  POET'S  VOW. 

0  be  wiser  thou, 

Inatructed  that  true  kuowledge  leads  to  love. 

WoiiDSTTOUTB 

PART  THE  FIRST. 
SHOWING  WHEREFORE   THE  VOW  WAS  MADE. 

Eve  is  a  twofold  niyslciy ; 

The  stillness  Earth  doth  keep — 
The  motion  wherewith  human  hearts 

Do  each  to  either  leap, 
As  if  all  souls  between  the  poles, 

Felt  "  Parting  comes  in  sleep." 

The  rowers  lift  their  oars  to  view 

Each  other  in  the  sea  ; 
The  landsmen  watch  the  rocking  boats 

In  a  pleasant  company  ; 
While  up  the  hill  go  gladlier  still 

Dear  friends  by  two  and  three. 

The  peasant's  wife  hath  looked  without 

Her  cottage  door  and  smiled. 
For  there  the  peasant  drops  his  spade 

To  clasp  his  youngest  child 
Which  hath  no  speech,  but  its  hands  can  reach 

And  stroke  his  forehead  mild. 

A  poet  sate  that  eventide 

Within  his  hall  alone, 
As  silent  as  its  ancient  lords 

In  the  coflined  place  of  stone, 
When  the  bat  hath  shrunk  from  the  praying  monk; 

And  the  praying  monk  is  gone. 

Nor  wore  the  dead  a  stiller  face 

Beneatli  the  cerement's  roll. 
His  lips  refusing  out  in  words 

Their  mystic  thoughts  to  dole, 
His  stedfast  eye  burnt  inwardlj", 

As  burning  out  his  soul. 

171 


472  A    poet's    vcw 

You  would  not  think  that  brow  could  e'er 

Ungentle  moods  express, 
Yet  seemed  it,  in  tliis  troubled  world, 

Too  calm  for  gentleness  ; 
When  the  verj'  star,  that  shines  from  far, 

Shines  trembling  ne'ertheless. 

It  lacked,  all  need,  the  softening  light 

Which  other  brows  supply. 
We  should  conjoin  the  scathed  trunks 

Of  our  humanit}', 
That  each  leafless  spray  entwining  may 

Look  softer  'gainst  the  sky. 

None  gazed  within  the  poet's  face. 

The  poet  gazed  in  none. 
He  threw  a  lonel}''  shadow  straight 

Before  the  moon  and  sun, 
Affronting  nature's  heaven-dwelling  creatures 

With  wrong  to  nature  done. 

Because  this  poet  daringl}^ 

The  nature  at  his  heart. 
And  that  quick  tune  along  his  veins 

He  could  not  change  by  ait, 
Had  vowed  his  blood  of  brotherhood 

To  a  stagnant  place  apart. 

He  did  not  vow  in  fear,  or  wrath. 

Or  grief's  fantastic  whim — 
But,  weights  and  shows  of  sensual  things 

Too  closely  crossing  him, 
On  his  soul's  eyelid  the  pressure  slid 

And  made  its  vision  dim. 

And  darkening  in  the  dark  he  strove 

'Twixt  eartli  and  sea  and  sky 
To  lose  in  shadow,  wave,  and  cloud. 

His  brother's  haunting  cry. 
The  winds  were  welcome  as  they  swept 
God's  five-day  work  he  would  accept, 

But  let  the  rest  go  by. 

He  cried — "  0  touching,  patient  Earth, 

That  weepest  in  thy  glee. 
Whom  God  created  very  good, 

And  very  mournful,  we ! 
Thy  voice  of  moan  dotli  reach  His  throne, 

As  Abel's  rose  from  thee. 


A      POET'S     VOW 

"  Poor  cn'stal  sky,  with  stars  astra}'  I 

j\Iad  winds,  that  howling  go 
Froiu  east  to  west !  peri^lexed  seas, 

That  stagger  from  tlieir  blow! 
0  motion  wild  !  O  wave  deliled  ! 

Our  curse  hath  made  3'ou  so. 

"  We!  and  our  curse'  do  /partake 

The  desiccating  sin  ? 
nave  /the  ai)ple  at  ni}'  lips? 

The  money-lust  within  ? 
Do  /human  stand  with  the  wounding  hand, 

To  the  blasting  heart  akin  ? 

"  Thou  solemn  pathos  of  all  things, 

For  solemn  joy  designed  ! 
Behold,  submissive  to  your  cause 

An  holy  wrath  I  find, 
And,  for  3'our  sake,  the  bondage  break, 

That  knits  me  to  my  kind. 

'  Hear  me  forswear  man's  sympathies, 

His  pleasant  3'ea  and  no, 
His  riot  on  the  piteous  earth 

Whereon  his  thistles  grow  ! 
His  changing  love — with  stars  above! 

His  pride  with  graves  below  ! 

"  Hear  me  forswear  his  roof  by  night, 

His  bread  and  salt  by  day. 
His  talkings  at  the  wood-fire  hearth, 

His  greetings  by  the  wav, 
His  answering  looks,  his  systemed  books, 

All  man  for  a3-e  and  aye. 

"  That  so  my  purged,  once  human  heart, 

From  all  the  human  rent, 
May  gather  strength  to  pledge  and  drink 

Your  wine  of  wonderment, 
"While  3-ou  pardon  me,  all  blessingl3-, 

'J'he  woe  mine  Adam  sent. 

"  And  I  shall  feel  your  unseen  looks 

Innumerous,  constant,  deei)," 
And  soft  as  haunted  Adam  once. 

Though  sadder,. round  me  creep — 
As  slumbering  men  have  mystic  ken 

Of  watchers  on  their  sleep. 

15* 


1:; 


174  THE    poet's    ^'ow. 

"  And  ever,  when  I  lift  mj'  brow 

At  evening  to  the  sun, 
No  voice  of  woman  or  of  child 

Recording,  "  Daj'  is  done," 
,  Your  silences  shall  a  love  express, 

More  deep  than  such  an  one." 


PART  THE  SECOND. 
SHOWING   TO   WHOM    THE    VOW    WAS    DECLARED. 

The  poet's  vow  was  inly  sworn, 

Tlie  poet's  vow  was  told. 
He  shared  among  his  crowding  friends 

The  silver  and  the  gold. 
They  clasping  bland  his  gift — his  hand 

In  a  somewliat  slacker  hold. 

They  wended  forth,  the  crowding  friends, 
With  farewells  smooth  and  kind. 

Thej'  wended  forth,  the  solaced  friends, 
And  left  but  twain  behind  : 

One  loved  him  true  as  brotliers  do. 
And  one  was  Rosalind. 

He  said — "My  friends  have  wended  forth 
With  farewells  smooth  and  kind. 

Mirie  oldest  friend,  my  plighted  bride, 
Ye  need  not  stay  behind. 

Friend,  wed  m_y  fair  bride  for  m3'-  sake. 

And  let  mv  lands  ancestral  make 
A  dower  for  Rosalind. 

"  And  when  beside  j'our  wassail  board 

Ye  bless  your  social  lot, 
1  charge  you  that  the  giver  be 

In  all  his  gifts  forgot. 
Or  alone  of  all  his  words  recall 

The  last — Lament  me  not." 

She  looked  upon  him  silently. 

With  her  large,  doubting  eyes, 
Like  a  child  that  never  knew  but  love, 

Whom  words  of  wrath  surprise. 
Till  the  rose  did  break  from  either  cheek, 

And  the  sudden  tears  did  rise. 


THE    roET's    VOW.  Hn 

She  looked  upon  him  mourn  full}', 

While  her  hirgc  e^-es  were  grown 
Yet  larger  with  the  steady  tears, 

Till,  all  his  purpose  known, 
She  turned  slow,  as  she  would  go — 

The  tears  were  shaken  down. 

She  turned  slow,  as  she  would  go, 

'I'hen  quickly  turned  again, 
And  gazing  in  his  face  to  seek 

Some  little  touch  of  pain — 
"  I  thought,"  she  said — but  shook  her  head — 

She  tried  that  speech  in  vain. 

"  I  thought — but  I  am  half  a  child, 

And  very  sage  art  thou — 
The  teachings  of  tlie  heaven  and  earth 

Should  keep  us  soft  and  low. 
They  have  drawn  rmj  tears  in  earl}'  years, 

Or  ere  I  wept — as  now. 

"  But  now  that  in  mj-  face  I  read 

Their  cruel  homily, 
Before  their  beauty  1  would  fain 

Untouched,  unsoftened  be — 
If  /  indeed  could  look  on  even 
The  senseless,  loveless  earth  and  heaven 

As  tJi.ou  canst  look  on  me  ! 

"And  couldest  thou  as  coldly  view 

Thy  childhood's  far  abode, 
Where  little  feet  kept  time  with  thine 

Along  the  dewy  sod  ? 
And  thy  mother's  look  from  holy  book. 

Rose  like  a  thought  of  God  ? 

"  0  brother — called  so,  ere  her  last 

Bethrothing  words  were  said  ! 
0  fellow-watcher  in  her  room, 

With  hushed  voice  and  tread  ! 
Kememberest  thou  how.  hand  in  hand, 

0  friend,  0  lover,  we  did  stand, 
And  knew  that  she  was  dead  ? 

"  I  will  not  live  Sir  Roland's  bride — 
That  dower  I  will  not  hold  ! 

1  tread  below  my  feet  that  go. 
These  parchments  bought  and  sold 


176  THE    poet's    vow. 

The  tears  I  weep,  are  mine  to  keep, 
And  worthier  than  thy  gold." 

The  poet  and  Sir  Roland  stood 

Alone,  each  turned  to  each, 
Till  Roland  brake  the  silence  left 

B}^  that  soft-throbbing  speech — 
"  Poor  heart !"  he  cried,  "  it  vainly  tried 

The  distant  heart  to  reach. 

"  And  thou,  O  distant,  sinful  heart, 

That  climbest  up  so  high, 
To  wrap  and  blind  thee  with  the  snows 

That  cause  to  dream  and  die — 
What  blessing  can,  from  lips  of  man. 

Approach  thee  with  his  sigh  ? 

"  Ay,  what,  fi*om  earth — create  for  man, 

And  moaning  in  his  moan  ? 
Ay,  what  from  stars — revealed  to  man, 

And  man-named,  one  by  ofie  ? 
A3',  more!  what  blessing  can  be  given, 
Where  the  Spirits  seven  do  show  in  heaven 

A  MAN  upon  tiie  throne  ? — 

A  man  on  earth  he  wandered  once. 

All  meek  and  undefiled, 
And  those  who  loved  liim,  said  "  He  wept  "- 

None  ever  said  He  smiled  ; 
Yet  there  might  have  been  a  smile  unseen, 
When  He  bowed  his  holy  face,  1  ween. 

To  bless  that  hnppy  child. 

"  And  now  he  pleadeth  up  in  heaven 

For  our  humanities. 
Till  the  rudd}^  light  on  seraphs'  wings 

In  pale  emotion  dies. 
They  can  better  bear  his  Godhead's  glare, 

Than  the  pathos  of  his  eyes. 

"  I  will  go  pray  our  God  to-day 

To  teach  thee  how  to  scan 
His  work  divine,  for  human  use 

Since  earth  on  axle  ran  ! 
To  teach  thee  to  discern  as  plain 
His  grief  divine — the  blood-drop's  stain 

He  left  there,  man  for  man. 


THE     poet's     vow.  H*] 

"  So,  for  the  blood's  sake,  shed  hy  Ilim 

Whom  angels  God  declare, 
Tears,  like  it,  moist  and  warm  with  love, 

Thy  reverent  e^'es  shall  wear, 
To  see  i'  the  face  of  Adam's  race 

The  nature  God  doth  share." 

"  I  heard,"  the  poet  said,  "  thy  voice 

As  dimly  as  thy  breath. 
The  sound  was  like  the  noise  of  life 

To  one  anear  his  death — 
Or  of  waves  that  fail  to  stir  the  pale 

Sere  leaf  they  roll  beneath. 

"  And  still  between  the  sound  and  me 

White  creatures  like  a  mist 
Did  interfloat  confusedly' — 

Mj'sterious  shapes  unvvist! 
Across  my  heart  and  across  my  brow 
I  felt  them  droop  like  wreaths  of  snow. 

To  still  the  pulse  they  kist. 

"  The  castle  and  its  lands  are  thine — 

The  poor's — it  shall  be  done. 
Go,  man,  to  love  I  I  <io  to  live 

In  Courland  hall,  alone. 
The  bats  along  the  ceilings  cling, 
The  lizards  in  the  floors  do  run. 
And  storms  and  years  have  worn  and  reft 
The  stain  by  human  builders  left 

In  working  at  the  stone." 


PART  THE  THIRD. 
SHOWING   HOW   THE    VOW   WAS   KEPT. 

He  dwelt  alone,  and,  sun  and  moon. 

Were  witness  that  he  made 
Rejection  of  his  humanness 

Until  they  seem'd  to  fade. 
His  face  did  so  ;  for  he  did  grow 

Of  his  own  soul  afraid. 

The  self-poised  God  maj'-  dwell  alone 

With  inward  glorying. 
But  God's  chief  angel  waiteth  for 

A  brother's  voice,  to  sing ; 
M 


178  THE    poet's    vow. 

And  a  lonel}''  creature  of  sinful  nature 
It  is  an  awful  tiling. 

An  awful  thing  that  feared  itself 

While  many  j-ears  did  roll, 
A  lonely  man,  a  feeble  man, 

A  part  beneath  the  whole — 
He  bore  by  day,  he  bore  by  nighl 
That  pressure  of  God's  infinite 

Upoii  his  finite  soul. 

The  poet  at  his  lattice  sate, 

And  downward  looked  he. 
Three  Christians  wended  by  to  prayers, 

With  mute  ones  in  their  ee. 
Each  turned  above  a  face  of  love. 

And  called  him  to  the  far  chapelle 
With  voice  more  tuneful  than  its  bell — 

IJut  still  they  wended  three. 

There  journeyed  by  a  bridal  pomp, 
A  bridegroom  and  his  dame. 

He  speaketh  low  for  happiness, 
She  bluslieth  red  for  shame; 

But  never  a  tone  of  benison 
From  out  the  lattice  came. 

A  little  child  with  inward  song, 

No  louder  noise  to  dare, 
Stood  near  the  w'all  to  see  at  play 

The  lizards  green  and  rare — 
Unblessed  the  while  for  his  childish  smile 

Which  Cometh  unaware. 


PART  THE  FOURTH. 
BHOWINQ  HOW  ROSALIND  FARED  BY  THE  KEEPING  OF  THE 

vow. 

In  death-sheets  lieth  Rosalind, 

As  wiiite  and  still  as  they; 
And  tl;e  old  nurse  that  watched  her  bed, 

Rose  up  with  "  Well-a-day  !" 
And  oped  the  casement  to  let  in 
The  sun   and  that  sweet  doubtful  din 


THE    poet's    vow, 


179 


Which  droppeth  from  the  grass  and  bouo-h 
Sails  wind  and  bird,  none  knoweth  how— 
To  cheer  her  as  she  lay. 

The  old  nurse  started  when  she  saw 

Her  sudden  look  of  woe. 
But  the  quick  wan  tremblings  round  her  mouth 

In  a  meek  smile  did  go, 
And  calm  she  said,  "  When  I  am  dead, 

Dear  nurse  it  shall  be  so. 


"Till  then,  shut  out  those  sights  and  sounds, 

And  pray  God  pardon  me. 
That  I  without  this  pain,  no  more 

His  blessed  works  can  see  1 
And  lean  beside  me,  loving  nurse, 
That  thou  ma3est  hear,  ere  I  am  worse, 

AVhat  thy  last  love  should  be."  I  ' 

The  loving  nurse  leant  over  her. 

As  white  she  lay  beneath; 
The  old  eyes  searching,  dim  with  life. 

The  young  ones  dim  with  deatii. 
To  read  tlicii-  look  if  sound  forsook 

The  trying,  trembling  breath — 

"  AYhen  all  this  feeble  breath  is  done. 

And  I  on  bier  am  laid. 
My  tresses  smoothed  for  never  a  feast, 

My  body  in  shroud  arra^yed, 
Uplift  eacii  palm  in  a  saintly  calm, 

As  if  that  still  I  prayed. 


■t  I; 


/,' 


// 


^/'V 


V; 


l(    s 


n 


"  And  heap  beneath  mine  head  the  flowers 

You  stoop  so  low  to  pull — 
The  little  white  flowers  from  the  wood, 

Which  grow  there  in  the  cool. 
Which  he  and  I,  in  childhood's  games. 
Went  plucking,  knowing  not  their  names. 

And  liliL'd  thine  apron  full. 

"  Weep  not !   /  weep  not.     Death  is  strong,. 

The  eyes  of  Deatli  are  dry  ! 
But  lay  tins  scroll  upon  my  breast. 

When  hushed  its  heavings  lie. 
And  await  awhile  for  the  corpse's  smile 

Which  shineth  [»resently. 


180  THE     poet's     vow. 

"  And  when  it  sliineth,  straightway  call 

Thy  youngest  children  dear, 
And  bid  them  gentlj^  carry  mo 

All  barefaced  on  the  bier — 
But  bid  them  pass  my  kirkyard  grass 

That  wavetli  long  anear. 

"  And  up  the  bank  where  I  used  to  sit 
And  dream  what  life  would  be, 

Along  the  brook,  with  its  sunn}-  look 
Akin  to  living  glee — 

O'er  the  windy  hill,  through  the  forest  still, 
Let  them  gently  carry  me. 

"And  through  the  piney  forest  still, 
And  down  the  open  moorland — ■ 

Kound  where  the  sea  beats  mistily 
And  blindly'  on  the  foreland  ; 

And  let  them  chant  that  hymn  I  know, 

Bearing  me  soft,  bearing  me  slow, 
To  the  ancient  hall  of  Courland. 

"  And  when  withal  they  near  the  hall, 

In  silence  let  them  lay 
My  bier  before  the  bolted  door, 

And  leave  it  for  a  day. 
For  I  have  vowed,  though  I  am  proud, 
To  go  there  as  a  guest  in  shroud, 

And  not  be  turned  awa}'." 

The  old  nurse  looked  Avithin  her  eyes. 

Whose  mutual  look  Avas  go-ne  ; 
The  old  nurse  stooped  upon  her  mouth, 

Whose  answering  voiee  was  done ; 
And  nought  she  heard,  till  a  little  bird 

Upon  the  casement's  woodbine  swinging, 
Broke  out  into  a  loud  sweet  singing 

For  joy  o'  the  summer  sun. 
"  Alack!  alack!" — she  watched  no  more- - 

With  head  on  knee  she  wailed  sore ; 
And  the  little  bird  sang  o'er  and  o'er 

For  joy  o'  the  summer  sun. 


THE    poet's    voay.                      181 

PART  THE  FIFTH. 

SHOWING    now   THE    VOW    AVAS    BROKEN. 

The  poet  oped  his  bolted  door 

The  midnight  sky  to  view. 

A  spiiil-fuel  was  in  the  air 

Whic'h  seemed  to  touch  ins  spirit  bare 

Whenever  his  V)reath  he  drew; 

And  the  stars  a  liquid  softness  had, 

As  alone  their  holiness  forbade 

Their  falling  with  the  dew. 

They  shine  ui)on  the  stedfast  hills, 

Upon  the  swinging  tide, 

Upon  the  narrow  ti'aek  of  beach, 

And  the  nuirniuring  pebbles  pied. 

The}'  shine  on  every  lovel}'  place, 

They  shine  ui)on  the  corpse's  face, 

As  it  were  lair  beside. 

It  lay  before  him,  humanlike, 

Yet  so  unlike  a  thing!                                                                  '• 

More  awful  in  its  shrouded  pomp 

'I'han  any  crowned  king. 

All  calm  and  cold,  as  it  did  hold 

Some  secret,  2"lorying. 

A  heavier  weight  than  of  its  cla}'' 

Clung  to  his  heart  and  knee. 

As  if  those  folded  i^alms  could  strike, 

He  staggered  groaningly, 

And  then  o'er-hung,  without  a  groan. 

The  meek,  close  mouth  that  smiled  alone. 

Whose  speech  the  scroll  must  be. 

THE  woitDS  OP  Rosalind's  scroli.. 

"  I  LEFT  thee  last,  a  child  at  heart, 

A  woman  scarce  in  years. 

I  come  to  thee,  a  solemn  corpse, 

Which  neither  feels  nor  fears. 

I  have  no  breath  to  use  in  sighs. 

They  laid  the  death-weights  on  mine  eyes, 

To  seal  them  safe  from  tears. 

16 

182  THE    poet's    vow. 

"  Look  on  nie  with  thine  own  calm  look — 

I  meet  it  calm  as  thou  ! 
Xo  look  of  thine  can  change  tlna  smile, 

Or  break  thy  sinful  vow. 
I  tell  thee  that  my  poor  scorned  heart 
Is  of  thine  earth  .  .  thine  earth,  a  part — • 
It  cannot  vex  thee  now. 

"  But  out,  alas  !  these  words  are  writ 

By  a  living,  loving  One, 
Ad  own  whose  cheeks,  the  proofs  of  life 

The  wram  quick  tears  do  run. 
Ah,  let  the  unloving  corpse  control 
Tby  scorn  back  from  the  loving  soul 

Whose  place  of  rest  is  won. 

I  have  prayed  for  thee  with  bursting  sobs, 
When  passion's  course  was  free. 

I  have  praj'ed  for  thee  with  silent  lips. 
In  the  anguish  none  could  see. 

They  whispered  oft,  "  She  sleepeth  soft  " — 
But  I  oul}'  praj^ed  for  thee. 

"  Go  to !  I  pray  for  thee  no  more — 

The  corpse's  tongue  is  still. 
Its  folded  fingers  point  to  heaven, 

But  point  there  stiff  and  chill. 
No  farther  wrong,  no  farther  woe 
Hath  license  from  the  sin  below 

Its  tranquil  heart  to  thrill. 

"  I  charge  thee,  b}^  the  living's  prayer. 

And  the  dead's  silentuess, 
To  wring  from  out  th^'  soul  a  cry 

Which  God  shall  hear  and  bless  ! 
Lest  Heaven's  own  palm  droop  in  ni}'  hand, 
And  pale  among  the  saints  I  stand, 

A  saint  companionless." 


Bow  lower  down  before  the  throne, 

Triumphant  Rosalind  ! 
He  boweth  on  th}-  corpse  his  face, 

And  weepeth  as  the  blind. 
'Twas  a  dread  sight  to  see  them  so — 
For  the  (senseless  corpse  rocked  to  and  fro 

With  the  wail  of  his  liviu2:  mind. 


TlIS      poet's     vow. 

]>ut  dreader  sight  could  such  be  seen. 

His  inward  n)ind  did  lie, 
Whose  long-subjected  humaniiess 

Gave  out  its  lion  cry, 
-And  fiercely  rent  its  tenement 

In  a  mortal  agony. 

T  tell  you,  friends,  had  yon  heard  his  vrail 
''rwonld  haunt  you  in  court  and  mart, 

And  in  merry  feast,  nntil  you  set 
Your  cup  down  to  depart — - 

That  weeping  wild  of  a  reckless  child 
From  a  proud  man's  broken  heart. 

0  broken  heart,  0  broken  vow. 

That  wore  so  proud  a  feature  ! 
God,  grasping  as  a  thunderbolt 

The  man's  rejected  nature 
Smote  him  therewith,  i'  the  presence  high 
Of  his  so  worshipped  earth  and  sky 
That  looked  on  all  indifferently — 

A  wailing  human  creature, 

A  human  creature  found  too  weak 

To  bear  his  human  pain  ! 
(Ma}'  Heaven's  dear  grace  have  spoken  peace 

To  his  d3'ing  heart  and  brain  !) — 
For  when  they  came  at  dawn  of  da}' 
To  lift  the  ladj^'s  corpse  away, 

Her  bier  was  holding  twain. 

The}''  dug  beneath  the  kirk3^ard  grass 

For  both,  one  dwelling  deep. 
To  which,  when  years  had  mossed  the  stone, 
Sir  Koland  brought  his  little  son 

To  watch  the  funeral  heap. 

And  when  the  bappy  boy  would  rather 
Turn  upward  his  blithe  eyes  to  see 
The  wood-doves  nodding  from  the  tree — • 

"  Na}',  bo}'-,  look  downward,"  said  k's  father. 
*'  Upon  this  human  dust  asleep. 
And  hold  it  in  thy  constant  ken 
That  God's  own  unit}'  compresses 

(One  into  one)  the  human  many, 
And  that  his  everlastingness  is 

The  bond  which  is  not  loosed  b}"  any ! — 


184  ROM  AUNT      OF      xAIARGRET. 

That  thou  and  I  this  law  must  keep, 
If  not  in  love,  in  sorrow  then  ! 
Though  smiling  not  like  other  men, 
Still,  like  them,  we  must  weep  " 


THE  ROiMAUNT    OF  MARGRET. 

Can  my  affections  find  out  nothing  best, 
But  still  and  still  remove  ? — 

QUAULES. 

I  PLANT  a  tree  whose  leaf 

The  )-ew-tree  leaf  will  suit. 
But  when  its  shade  is  o'er  you  laid, 

Turn  round  and  pluck  the  fruit. 
Now  reach  my  harj)  from  off  tlie  wall 

Where  shines  tlie  sun  aslant ! 
The  sun  may  shine  and  we  be  cold — 

0  harken,  loving  hearts  and  bold. 

Unto  ni}^  wild  romaunt, 

Margret,  Margret. 

Sitteth  the  fair  ladj-e 
Close  to  the  river  side, 
Which  runneth  on  with  a  merry  tone 
Her  merry  tlioughts  to  guide. 
It  runneth  through  the  trees, 
It  runneth  by  the  hill, 
Xathless  the  lad^-'s  thoughts  have  found 
A  way  more  pleasant  still. 

Margret,  Margret. 

The  night  is  in  her  hair 

And  giveth  shade  to  shade. 
And  the  pale  moonlight  on  her  forehead  white 

Like  a  spirit's  hand  is  laid. 
Her  lips  part  with  a  smile 

Instead  of  speakings  done. 

1  ween,  she  thinketh  of  a  voice, 

Albeit  uttering  none. 

Margret,  Margret 

All  little  birds  do  sit 

With  heads  beneath  their  wings: 


ROM  AUNT     OF      MARGRET.  ISo 

2sature  dotli  seem  in  a  mystic  dream, 
Absorbed  from  her  living  things. 
That  dream  by  that  ladye 
Is  certes  unpartook, 
For  she  lool<eth  to  the  high  cold  stars 
Witli  a  tender  human  look. 

Margret,  Margret. 

The  lady's  shadow  lies 
Upon  the  running  river. 
It  lieth  no  less  in  its  quietness, 
For  that  which  resteth  ncA'er. 
^lost  like  a  trusting  heart 
Upon  a  passing  faith — 
Or  as,  upon  the  course  of  life. 
The  stedfast  doom  of  death. 

Margret,  Ma.  gret. 

The  lady  doth  not  move, 
The  lad}'  doth  not  dream. 
Yet  she  seetli  her  shade  no  longer  laid 
In  rest  upon  the  stream. 
It  shaketh  without  wind, 
It  parteth  from  the  tide, 
It  standeth  upright  in  the  cleft  moonlight, 
It  sitteth  at  her  side. 

Margret,  Margret. 

Look  in  its  face,  lad^-e. 

And  keep  thee  from  th}-  swound  ! 
With  a  spirit  bold,  thy  pulses  hold, 
And  hear  its  voice's  sound. 
For  so  will  sound  thy  voice. 
When  thy  face  is  to  the  wall ; 
And  such  will  be  thy  foce,  lad3-e. 

When  the  maidens  work  ihy  pall. 

Margret,  Margret. 

"Am  I  not  like  to  thee?" — 
The  A'oice  was  calm  and  low; 
And  between  each  word  you  might  have  heard 
The  silent  forests  grow. 
"  '  The  like  may  away  the  like,'' 
By  which  mysterious  law 
Mine  e3'es  from  thine  and  my  lips  from  thine 
The  light  and  breath  may  draw 

Margret,  ^largret. 
16* 


186  R  O  M  A  U  N  T     OF      M  A  R  G  R  E  T. 

"  My  lips  do  need  th}^  breiith, 
My  lips  do  need  th}^  smile, 
And  m}'  pallid  eyne,  that  liglit  in  thine 
Which  met  tlie  stars  erevvhile. 
Yet  go  with  light  and  life, 
If  that  thou  lovest  one 
In  all  the  earth,  who  loveth  thee 
As  truly  as  the  sun. 

Margret,  Margret." 

Her  cheek  had  waxed  white 
Like  cloud  at  fall  of  snow  ; 
Then  like  to  one  at  set  of  sun, 
It  waxed  red  also  ; 
For  love's  name  niaketh  bold, 
As  if  the  loved  were  near. 
And  then  she  sighed  the  deep  long  sigh 
Which  Cometh  after  fear. 

Margret,  Margret. 

"  Now,  sooth,  I  fear  thee  not — ■ 
Shall  never  fear  thee  now  !" 
(And  a  noble  sight  was  the  sudden  light 
Which  lit  her  lifted  brow.) 
"  Can  earth  be  dry  of  streams  ? 
Or  hearts,  of  love  ?"  she  said  ; 
"  Who  doubteth  love,  can  know  not  love  ; 
He  ib  already  dead." 

Margret;  Margret. 

"  I  have  "...  and  here  her  lips 
Some  word  in  pause  did  keep, 
And  gave  the  while  a  quiet  smile, 
As  if  they  paused  in  sleep — 
"  I  have  ...  a  brotlier  dear, 
A  knight  of  knightly  fame  ! 
I  bvoidered  him  a  knightly  scarf 
With  letters  of  my  name. 

Margret,  Margret. 

"  I  fed  his  gre}^  goss  hawk, 
I  kissed  his  lierce  bloodhound, 
I  sate  at  home  when  he  might  come 
And  caught  his  horn's  far  sound. 
I  sang  him  hunter's  songs, 

And  poured  him  the  red  wine — 


ROM  AUNT     OF      MARGRET.  181 

lie  looked  across  the  cup  and  said, 
/  love  thee,  sisler  ?amd." 

INIavgret,  Margret. 

IT  trembled  on  the  grass, 

With  a  low,  shadowy  laughter. 
The  sounding  river  which  rolled  for  ever, 
Stood  dumb  and  stagnant  after. 
"  Brave  knight  thy  brother  is  ! 
But  better  loveth  he 
Th}'  chaliced  wine  than  thy  chanted  song, 
And  better  both,  than  thee, 

Margret,  Margret." 

The  lady  did  not  heed 
The  river's  silence  while 
Her  own  thoughts  still  ran  at  their  will, 
And  calm  was  still  her  smile. 
"  My  little  sister  wears 

The  look  our  mother  w'oi-e  : 
I  smooth  her  locks  with  a  golden  comb, 
I  bless  her  evermore." 

Margret,  Margret. 

"  I  gave  her  my  first  bird, 

When  first  my  voice  it  knew; 
I  made  her  share  my  posies  rare, 
And  told  her  where  they  grew. 
I  taught  her  God's  dear  name 
With  prayer  and  praise,  to  tell — 
She  looked  from  heaven  into  my  face, 
And  said,  /  love  thee  well.'" 

Margret,  Margret. 

IT  trembled  on  the  grass 

With  a  low,  shadowy  laughter. 
You  could  see  each  bird  as  it  woke  and  stared 
Through  the  shrivelled  foliage  after. 
"  Fair  child  thy  sister  is  ! 
But  better  loveth  she 
Thy  golden  comb  than  th}-^  gathered  flowers. 
And  better  both,  than  thee, 

Margret,  Margret." 

Thy  lady  did  not  heed 

The  withering  on  the  bough  : 
Still  calm  her  smile  albeit  the  while 
A  little  pale  her  brow. 


188  R  0  M  A  U  N  T     OF      M  A  R  G  R  E  X. 

"  1  have  a  father  old, 

The  lord  of  ancient  halls. 
An  hundred  friends  are  in  his  court, 
Yet  only  me  he  calls. 

Margret,  Margret. 

"An  hundred  knights  are  in  his  court, 
Yet  read  I  by  his  knee ; 
And  when  forth  tiiey  go  to  the  tourney  show, 
I  rise  not  -up  to  see. 
'Tis  a  weai-y  book  to  read, 
My  tryst's  at  set  of  sun, 
But  loving  and  dear  beneath  the  stars 
Is  his  blessing  when  I've  done." 

Margret,  Margret. 

IT  trembled  on  the  grass 

AVith  a  low,  sliadowy  laughter; 
And  moon  and  star  though  bright  and  far 
Did  shrink  ami  darken  after. 
"  High  lord  thy  father  is  1 
But  better  loveth  he 
His  ancient  halls  than  his  hundred  friends, 
His  ancient  halls,  than  thee, 

Margret,  Margret." 

The  lady  did  not  heed 

That  the  far  stars  did  fail: 
Still  calm  her  smile,  albeit  the  while  .  .  . 
Nay,  but  she  is  not  pale ! 
"  I  have  a  more  than  friend 
Across  the  mountains  dim  : 
No  other's  voice  is  soft  to  me, 
Unless  it  nameth  /ii??i." 

Margret,  Margret. 

"Though  louder  beats  mine  heart 
I  know  his  tread  again, 
j^nd  his  far  plume  aye,  unless  turned  awa}', 
For  the  tears  do  blind  me  then. 
We  brake  no  gold,  a  sign 
Of  stronger  faith  to  be — 
But  I  wear  his  last  look  in  my  soul, 
Which  said,  /  love  but,  thee  .'" 

Margret,  Margret 

IT  trembled  on  the  grass 

With  a  low,  shadowy  laughter; 


ROMA  U  NT      Uf     MARQRET.  180 

And  the  ftiiid  did  toll,  as  a  passing  soul 
AVere  sped  b3'  church-bell  after; 
And  shadows,  'stead  of  light, 
Fell  from  the  stars  above. 
In  flakes  of  darkness  on  her  face 
Still  bright  with  trusting  love. 

Margaret,  Margaret. 

"lie  loved  but  only  thee! 
That  love  is  transient  too. 
The  wild  hawk's  bill  doth  dabble  still 
I'  the  mouth  that  vowed  thee  true. 
Will  he  open  his  dull  eyes, 
When  tears  fall  on  his  brow? 
Behold,  the  death-worm  to  his  heart 
Is  a  nearer  thing  than  iJwu. 

Margret,  Margret." 

Iler  face  was  on  the  ground — 
None  saw  the  agony. 
But  the  men  at  sea  did  that  night  agree 
Thej^  heard  a  drowning  cry. 
And  Avhen  the  morning  brake, 
Fast  rolled  the  river's  tide, 
With  the  green  trees  waving  overhead. 
And  a  white  corse  laid  beside. 

Margret,  Margret. 

A  knight's  bloodhound  and  he 
The  funeral  watch  did  keep  ; 
With  a  thought  o'  the  cliase  he  stroked  its  face 
As  it  howled  to  see  liim  weep. 
A  fair  child  kissed  the  dead. 
But  shrank  before  its  cold. 
And  alone  yet  proudly  in  his  hall 
Did  stand  a  baron  oUl. 

Margret,  Margret. 

Hang  up  my  harp  again  ! 
I  have  uo  voice  for  song. 
Not  song  but  wail,  and  mourners  pale, 
Not  bards,  to  love  belong. 
0  failing  human  love  ! 

0  light,  by  darkness  known  ! 
O  false,  the  while  thou  treadest  earth  I 
0  deaf  beneath  the  stone  ! 

Alargret,  Maroret. 


190  isobel's    chilp. 


ISOBEL'S  CHILD. 

so  find  we  profit, 

By  losing  of  our  prayers. 

Shakspea^i? 

To  rest  the  weary  nurse  has  gone. 

And  eight-day  watch  had  watched  she, 
Still  rocking  beneath  sun  and  moou 

The  baby  on  her  knee, 
Till  Isobel  its  mother  said 
"  The  fever  waneth — wend  to  bed, 

For  now  the  watch  comes  round  to  me." 

Then  wearily  the  nurse  did  throw 
Her  pallet  in  the  darkest  place 

Of  that  sick  room,  and  slept  and  dreamed. 

For,  as  the  gusty  wind  did  blov/ 

The  night-lamp's  flare  across  her  face. 
She  saw,  or  seemed  to  see,  but  dreamed, 

That  the  poplars  tall  on  the  opi)osite  hill, 

The  seven  tall  poplars  on  the  hill. 

Did  clasp  the  setting  sun  until 

His  rays  dropped  from  him,  pined  and  still 
As  blossoms  in  frost ! 
Till  he  waned  and  paled,  so  weirdly  crossed. 
To  the  color  of  moonlight  whicii  doth  pass 
Over  the  dank  ridged  church3'ard  grass. 

The  poplars  held  the  sun,  and  he 
The  ej'es  of  the  nurse  that  they  should  not  see 
Not  for  a  moment,  the  babe  on  her  knee. 
Though  she  shuddered  to  feel  that  it  grew  to  be 

Too  chill,  and  lay  too  heavilj'. 

She  only  dreamed  ;  for  all  the  while 
'Twas  Lady  Isobel  that  kept 
The  little  baby — and  it  slept 
Fast,  warm,  as  if  its  mother's  smile, 
Laden  with  love's  dewy  weight. 
And  red  a?  rose  of  Harpoerate 
Dropt  upon  its  eyelids,  pressed 
Lashes  to  cheek  in  a  sealed  rest. 


ISOBEL'S  CHILD. 


ISOBEL'S     CHILD.  191 

And  more,  and  more  smiled  Isobel 
To  see  the  baby  sleep  so  well — 
She  knew  not  that  she  smiled. 
Against  the  lattice,  dull  and  wild 
Drive  the  heav}'  droning  drops, 
Drop  bj'  drop,  the  sound  being  one — 
As  momenth'  time's  segments  fall 
On  the  ear  of  God,  who  hears  through  all 

Eternity's  unbroken  monotone. 
And  more  and  more  smiled  Isobel 
To  see  the  baby  sleep  so  well — 
She  knew  not  that  she  smiled. 
The  wind  in  intermission  stops 
Down  in  the  beechen  forest. 
Then  cries  aloud 
As  one  at  the  sorest. 
Self-stung,  self-driven. 
And  rises  up  to  its  very  tops. 
Stiffening  erect  the  branches  bowed, 
Dilating  with  a  tempest-soul 
The  trees  that  with  their  dark  hands  break 
Through  their  own  outline  and  heavily  roll 
Shadows  as  mnssive  as  clouds  in  heaven. 

Across  the  castle  lake. 
And  more  and  more  smiled  Isobel 
To  see  the  baby  sleep  so  well ; 
She  knew  not  that  she  smiled  ; 
She  knew  not  that  the  storm  was  wild. 
Through  the  uproar  drear  she  could  not  hear 
The  castle  clock  which  struck  anear — 
She  heard  the  low,  light  brealhing  of  her  child, 

O  sight  for  wondering  look  ! 
While  the  external  nature  broke 
Into  such  abandonment. 
While  the  very  mist  heart-rent 
B}''  the  lightning,  seemed  to  eddy 
Against  nature,  with  a  din, 
A  sense  of  silence  and  of  steady 
Natural  calm  api)eared  to  come 
From  things  without,  and  enter  in 

The  human  creature's  room. 

So  motionless  she  sate, 
The  babe  asleep  upon  her  knees, 
You  might  have  dreamed  their  souls  had  gonf 
Away  to  things  inanimate, 


192  ISOBEL'S     CHILD 

In  siK-h  to  live,  in  feiich  to  moan  ; 
And  that  their  bodies  had  ta'en  back, 
In  mystic  change,  all  silences 
That  cross  the  sk}'^  in  cloudy  rack, 
Or  dwell  beneath  the  reedy  ground 
In  waters  safe  from  their  own  sound 

Only  she  wore 
The  deepening  smile  I  named  before, 
And  that  a  deepening  love  expressed  ; 
And  who  at  once  can  love  and  rest? 

In  sooth  the  smile  that  then  was  keeping 
"Watch  upon  the  baby  sleeping, 
Floated  with  its  tender  light 
Downward,  from  the  drooping  e3'es, 
Upward,  from  the  lips  apart. 
Over  cheeks  which  had  grown  white 

With  an  eight-(iay  weeping. 
All  smiles  come  in  such  a  wise, 
Where  tears  shall  fall  or  have  of  old — 
Like  northern  lights  that  fill  the  heart 

Of  heaven  in  sign  of  cold. 

Motionless  she  sate. 
Her  hair  had  fallen  by  its  weight 
On  each  side  of  her  smile,  and  la}^ 
Very  blackl}'  on  the  arm 
Where  the  babj'  nestled  warm, 
Pale  as  baby  carved  in  stone 
Seen  by  glimpses  of  the  moon 

Up  a  dark  cathedral  aisle. 
But,  through  the  storm,  no  moonbeam  fell 
Upon  the  child  of  Isobel — 
Perhaps  3'ou  saw  it  by  the  ray 

Alone  of  her  still  smile. 

A  solemn  thing  it  is  to  me 

To  look  upon  a  babe  that  sleeps; 

Wearing  in  its  spirit-deeps 

The  undeveloped  mystery 

Of  our  Adam's  taint  and  woe, 

Which,  when  they  developed  be. 

Will  not  let  it  slumber  so! 

Lying  new  in  life  beneath 

The  shadow  of  the  coming  death, 

With  that  soft,  low,  quiet  Dreath, 


isobel's    child.  103 

As  if  it  felt  the  sun  ! 

Knowing  all  things  by  their  blooma 

Not  their  roots,  3'ea,  sun  and  sk3^ 

Onh'-  by  their  warmth  that  comes 

Out  of  each — eartli,  onl}^  b^^ 

The  pleasant  hues  that  o'er  it  run — 

And  human  love,  by  drops  of  sweet 

White  nourishment  still  hanging  round 

Tlie  little  month  so  slumber-bound 

All  which  broken  sentienc}' 

And  conclusion  incomplete, 

Will  gather  and  unite  and  climb 

To  an  immortalit}' 

Good  or  evil  each  sublime, 

Through  life  and  death  to  life  again. 

O  little  lids  now  folded  fast, 

Must  ye  learn  to  drop  at  last 

Our  large  and  burning  tears  ? 

0  Avarm  quick  body,  must  thou- lie, 

When  the  time  comes  round  to  die, 

Still,  from  all  the  whirl  of  3'ears, 

Bare  of  all  the  joy  and  pain  ? — 

0  small  frail  being,  wilt  thou  stand 
At  tJod's  right  hand, 

Lifting  up  those  sleeping  eyes 

Dilated  by  gi-eat  destinies, 
To  an  endless  waking?  thrones  and  seraphim, 
Through  the  long  ranks  of  their  solemnities. 
Sunning  thee  with  calm  looks  of  Heaven's  surprise, 

But  thine  alone  on  Him  ? — 
Or  else,  self-willed,  to  tread  the  Godless  place, 
(God  keep  thy  will !)  feel  thine  own  enei'gies 
Cold,  strong,  objectless,  like  a  dead  man's  clasp, 
The  sleep)»iss  deathless  life  within  thee,  grasp — 
While  m3-riad  faces,  like  one  changeless  face. 
With  woe  not  lovers,  shall  glass  tliee  everywwhere, 
And  overcome  thee  with  thine  own  despair? 

More  soft,  less  solemn  images 
Drifted  o'er  the  lady's  heart, 

Silenth'  as  snow. 
She  had  seen  eight  days  depart 
Hour  by  hour,  on  bended  knees, 
With  pale-wrung  hands  and  prayings  low 
And  broken,  through  which  came  the  sound 
Of  tears  that  fell  against  the  ground, 

17  N 


ii4  ISOBEL's     CHILD. 

Making  sad  stops: — "Dear  Lord,  dear  Lord  1" 
.    She  still  had  prated,  (the  heavenly  word, 
Broken  by  an  earthly  sigh) 
— "  Thou,  who  didst  not  erst  deny 
The  mother-joy  to  Mary  mild, 
Blessed  in  the  blessed  child,   . 
Which  hearkened  in  meek  babyhood 
Her  cradle-hymn,  albeit  used 
To  all  that  music  interfused 
In  breasts  of  angels  high  and  good  ! 
Oh,  take  not.  Lord,  my  babe  nway — 
Oh,  take  not  to  thy  songful  heaven, 
The  pretty  baby  thou  hast  given, 
Or  ere  that  I  have  seen  him  play 
Around  his  father's  knees  and  known 
That  he  knew  how  my  love  has  gone 

From  all  the  world  to  him. 
Think,  God,  among  the  cherubim, 
How  I  shall  shiver  every  day 
In  thy  June  sunshine,  knowing  where 
.     The  grave-grass  keeps  it  from  his  fair, 
Still  cheeks  !  and  feel  at  every  tread 
His  little  body  Avhich  is  dead 
And  hidden  in  the  turfy  fold. 
Doth  make  th^^  whole  warm  earth  a-cold ! 

0  God,  I  am  so  young,  so  young — 

1  am  not  used  to  tears  at  nights 
Instead  of  slumber — nor  to  praj-er 
With  sobbing  lips  and  hands  out-wrung! 
Thou  knowest  all  my  prayings  were 

'I  bless  thee,  God,  for  past  delights — 

Thank  God  !'     I  am  not  used  to  bear 

Hard  thoughts  of  death;  the  earth  doth  covet 

No  face  from  me  of  friend  or  lover. 

And  must  the  first  who  teaches  me, 

The  form  of  shrouds  and  funerals,  be 

Mine  own  first-born  beloved  ?  he 

Who  taught  me  first  this  mother-love  ? 

Dear  Lord,  who  spreadest  out  above 

Thy  loving,  transpierced  hands  to  meet 

All  lifted  hearts  with  blessings  sweet— 

Pierce  not  my  heart,  my  tender  heart, 

Thou  madest  tender!     Thou  who  ait 

So  happy  in  thy  heaven  alway  1 

Take  not  mine  only  bliss  away  1" 


isobel's    child.  *|95 

She  so  had  prayed  :  and  God,  who  hears 
Through  scraph-soiigs  the  sound  of  tears, 
From  that  beloved  babe  had  ta'en 
The  fever  and  the  beating  pain. 
And  more  and  more  smiled  Isobel 
To  see  tlie  baby  sleep  so  well, 
(She  knew  not  that  she  smiled  I  wis) 
Until  the  pleasant  gradual  thought 
Which  near  her  heart  the  smile  enwrought, 
Now  soft  and  slow,  itself,  did  seem 
To  float  along  a  happy  dream. 
Beyond  it  into  speech  like  this. 

"  I  prayed  for  thee,  my  little  child, 

And  God  has  heard  my  prayer! 

And  when  thy  babyhood  is'gone. 

We  two  together  u'ndefiled 

By  men's  repinings,  will  kneel  down 

Upon  His  earth  which  will  be  fair 

(Not  covering  thee,  sweet !)  to  us  twain, 

And  give  Him  thankful  praise." 

Dully  and  wildly  drives  the  rain. 
Against  the  lattices  drives  tiie  rain. 

"  I  thank  Him  now,  that  I  can  think 

Of  those  same  future  days. 
Nor  from  the  harmless  image  shrink 

Of  what  I  there  might  see 

Strange  babies  on  their  mothers'  knee, 
Whose  innocent  soft  faces  miglit 
From  off  mine  eyelids  strike  The  light, 

With  looks  not  meant  for  me  1" 

Gustily  blows  the  wind  through  the  rain. 
As  against  the  lattices  drives  the  rain. 

"  But  now,  0  baby  mine,  together, 
We  turn  this  hope  of  ours  again 
To  many  an  hour  of  summer  weather. 
When  we  shall  sit  and  entertvvine 
Our  spirits,  and  instruct  each  other 
In  the  pure  loves  of  child  and  mother  I 
To  human  loves  make  one  divine." 

The  thunder  tears  through  the  wind  and  tho  rain, 
As  full  on  the  lattices  drives  the  rain. 


196  isobel's    child. 

"  My  little  child,  what  wilt  thou  choose? 
Now  let  me  look  at  thee  and  ponder. 
What  gladness,  from  the  orladnesscs 
Futurity  is  spreading  under 
Tliy  gladsome  sight  ?     Beneath  the  trees 
"Wilt  thou  lean  all  day,  and  lose 
Tiiy  spirit  witli  tlie  river  seen 
Intermittently  between 
The  winding  beechen  alleys — • 
Half  in  labor,  half  repose. 
Like  a  shepherd  keeping  sheep, 
Thou,  with  only  thoughts  to  keep 
Which  never  a  bound  will  overpass, 
And  which  are  innocent  as  thofee 
That  feed  among  Arcadian  valleys 
Upon  tiie  dewy  grass  ?" 

The  large  white  owl  that  with  age  is  blind, 

That  hath  sate  for  years  in  the  old  tree  hollow, 

Is  carried  away  in  a  gust  of  wind  ! 

His  wings  could  bear  him  not  as  fast 

As  he  goeth  now  the  lattice  past — 

He  is  borne  by  the  winds  ;  the  rains  do  follow  : 

His  white  wings  to  the  blast  out-flowing, 

He  hooteth  in  going, 
And  still,  in  the  lightnings,  coldly  glitter 

His  round  unblinking  eyes. 

"  Or,  baby,  wilt  thou  think  it  fitter 

To  be  eloquent  and  wise — 

One  upon  whose  lips  the  air 

Turns  to  solemn  verities. 

For  men  to  breathe  anew  and  win 

A  deeper-sealed  life  within? 

Wilt  be  a  philosopher. 

By  whose  voice  the  earth  and  skies 

Shall  speak  to  the  unborn  ? 

Or  a. poet,  broadly  spreading 

The  golden  immortalities 

Of  thy  soul  on  natures' lorn 

And  poor  of  such,  them  all  to  guard 

From  their  decay — beneath  thy  treading. 

Earth's  flowers  recovering  hues  of  Eden— 

And  stars  drawn  downward  by  thy  looks, 

To  shine  ascendant  in  thy  books?" 


ISOUEf.'S     CHILD  137 

The  tame  hawk  in  the  castle-yanl, 
How  it  sfieams  to  the  lightning,  with  its  wet 
Jagged  phimes  oveilianging  the  parapet! 
Au(i  at  the  lady's  door  the  hound 

Scratches  with  a  crying  sound. 

"  But,  0  my  babe,  tliy  lids  are  laid 

Close,  fast  upon  tliy  cheek — 
And  not  a  dream  of  [)ow-er  and  sheeu 
Can  make  a  passage  u|)  between  ; 
Thy  heart  is  of  thy  mother's  made, 

Thy  looks  are  vcr}^  meek  ; 

"  And  it  will  be  their  chosen  place 
To  rest  on  some  beloved  face, 
As  these  on  thine — and  let  the  noise 
Of  the  whole  world  go  on,  nor  drown 

The  tender  silence  of  thy  jo^'s  ! 
Or  when  that  silence  shall  have  grow^n 
Too  tender  for  itself,  the  same 
Yearning  for  sound — to  look  above 
And  utter  its  one  meaning,  love, 

That  He  may  hear  His  name !' 

No  wind,  no  rain,  no  thunder! 
The  waters  had  trickled  not  slowlj^ 
The  thunder  was  not  spent, 
Nor  the  wind  near  finishing. 

Who   would    have   said    that  the   storm   was  di- 
minishing ? 
No  wind,  no  rain,  no  thunder! 
Their  noises  dropped  asunder 
From  the  earth  and  the  firmament, 
From  the  towers  and  the  lattices. 
Abrupt  and  echoless 
A-S  ripe  fruits  on  the  ground  unshaken  wholly — 

As  life  in  death  ! 
And  sudden  and  solemn  the  silence  fell, 
Startling  the  heart  of  Isobel 

As  the  tempest  could  not. 
Against  the  door  went  panting  the  breath 
.  Of  the  lady's  hound  whose  cry  was  still. 
And  she,  constrained  howe'er  she  would  not, 
Lifted  her  eyes,  and  saw  the  moon 
Looking  out  of  heaven  alone 
Upon  the  poplared  hill — 
A  calm  of  God  made  visible 
That  men  might  bless  it  at  their  will. 
17* 


198  isobel's    child. 

The  moonshine  on  the  baby's  face 

Falleth  clear  and  cohi. 
The  mother's  looks  have  fallen  back 

To  the  same  place  ; 
Because  no  moon  with  silver  rack, 
Nor  broad  sunrise  in  jasper  skies 
Has  power  to  hold 
Our  loving  ej^es, 

Which  still  revert  as  ever  must 

"Wonder  and  Hope,  to  gaze  on  the  dust. 

The  moonshine  on  the  baby's  face 

Cold  and  clear  remaineth. 

The  mother's  looks  do  shrink  away 

The  mother's  looks  return  to  stay. 

As  charmed  by  what  paineth. 
Is  any  glamour  in  the  case? 
Is  it  dream  or  is  it  sight  ? 
Hath  the  change  upon  the  wild 
Elements,  that  signs  the  night, 

Passed  upon  the  child  ? 
It  is  not  dream,  but  sight! 

The  babe  has  awakened  from  sleep, 
And  unto  tlie  gaze  of  its  mother 
Bent  over  it,  lifted  another! 
Not  the  bab^'-looks  that  go 
Unaimingl}^  to  and  fro, 
But  an  earnest  gazing  deep. 
Such  as  soul  gives  soul  at  length, 
When,  by  work  and  wail  of  years. 
It  winneth  a  solemn  strength, 

And  mourneth  as  it  wears. 
A  strong  man  could  not  brook 
With  pulse  unhurried  by  fears. 
To  meet  that  baby's  look 
O'erglazed  by  manhood's  tears— 
The  tears  of  a  man  full  grown, 
With  a  power  to  wring  our  own, 
In  the  eyes  all  undeMled 
Of  a  little  three-months'  child  ! 
To  see  that  babe-brow  wrought 
By  the  witnessing  of  thought. 
To  judgment's  prodigy  ! 
And  the  small  soft  mouth  unweaued. 
By  mother's  kiss  o'erleaned. 


isobel's    child.  my 

(Putting  the  sound  of  loving 
Where  no  sound  else  was  moving, 

Except  the  speechless  cry) 

Quickened  to  mind's  expression, 

Shaped  to  articulation, 
Yea,  uttering  words — yea,  naming  woe, 
In  tones  that  with  it  strangely  went, 
Because  so  baby-innocent, 
As  the  child  spake  out  the  mother  so. — • 

"  0,  mother,  mother,  loose  th}'^  prayer! 

Christ's  name  hath  made  it  strong. 
It  bindeth  me,  it  holdeth  me 
With  its  most  loving  cruelty. 
From  floating  my  new  soul  along 

The  happy,  heavenly  air. 
It  bindeth  me,  it  holdeth  me 
In  all  this  dark,  upon  this  dull 
Low  earth,  by  only  weepers  trod  ! — 
It  bindeth  me,  it  holdeth  me ! 
Mine  angel  looketh  sorrowful 

Upon  the  face  of  God.* 

"  Mother,  mother,  can  I  dream 

Beneath  your  earthly  trees  ? 

I  had  a  vision  and  a  gleam — 

I  heard  a  sound  more  sweet  than  these 

When  rippled  by  the  wind. 
Did  you  see  the  Dove  with  wings 
Bathed  in  golden  glisterings 
From  a  sunless  light  behind, 
Dropping  on  me  from  the  sky 
Soft  as  a  mother's  kiss,  until 
I  seemed  to  leap,  and  yet  was  still  ? 
Saw  you  how  His  love-large  eye 
Looked  upon  me  mj'stic  calms, 
Till  the  power  of  his  divine 
Vision  was  indrawn  to  mine  ? 

"  Oh,  the  dream  within  the  dream! 
I  saw  celestial  places  even. 
Oh,  the  vistas  of  high  palms, 
Making  finites  of  delight 
Through  the  heavenly  infinite — 


*  For  I  say  unto  you  that  in  Heaven  their  angels  do  al\vays  be- 
hold tho  face  of  my  Father  which  is  iu  Heaven. — Matt.  ch.  xviii 
ver.  10. 


£00  isobel's    child. 

Lifting  up  their  green  still  tops 

To  the  heaA^en  of  Heaven  ! 
Oh,  the  sweet  life-tree  that  drops 
Shade  like  light  across  the  river, 
Glorified  in  its  for  ever 

Flowing  from  the  Throne  ! 
Oh,  the  shining  holinesses 
Of  the  tliousand,  thousand  faces 
God-sunned  l\y  the  throned  One! 
And  made  intense  with  such  a  love, 
That  though  I  saw  them  turned  above, 
Each  loving  seemed  for  also  me  ! 
And,  oh,  the  Unspeakal)le,  the  He, 
The  manifest  in  secrecies, 
Yet.  of  mine  own  heart  partaker — 
With  the  overcoming  look 
Of  One  who  hath  been  once  forsook, 

And  blessed  the  forsaker. 
Mother,  mother,  let  me  go 
Toward  the  Face  that  looketh  so. 
Through  the  mystic,  winged  Four 
Whose  are  inward,  outward  eyes 
Dark  with  light  of  mysteries, 
And  the  restless  evermore 
'  Holy,  holy,  holy  ' — through 
The  sevenfold  Lamps  that  burn  in  view 
Of  cherubim  and  seia[)lum — 
Through  the  four-aud-twent}'  crowned 
Stately  elders,  white  around, 
Suffer  me  to  go  to  Him  ! 

"  Is  3'our  wisdom  very  wise, 
Mother,  on  the  narrow  earth, 
Very  happy,  very  worth 
That  I  should  staj"^  to  learn  ? 
Are  these  air-corrupting  sighs 
Fashioned  by  unlearned  breath  ? 
Do  the  students'  lamps  that  burn 
All  night,  illumine  death? 
Mother,  albeit  this  be  so. 
Loose  thy  prayer  and  let  me  go 
Where  that  bright  chief  angel  stands 
Apart  from  all  liis  brother  bands. 
Too  glad  for  smiling,  having  bent 
In  angelic  wilderuieut 


I  S  O  B  EL    S      0  II  I  LD  201 

O'er  the  depths  of  God,  and  brought 

Keeling  thrncc,  one  only  thought 

To  fill  Ills  whole  eternity. 

lie  the  teacher  is  for  me  ! — 

He  can  teach  what  I  would  know — 

Mother,  mother,  let  me  go ! 

"  Can  3'our  poet  make  an  Eden 

No  winter  will  undo, 
And  light  a  starry  fire  while  heeding 

Uis  hearth's  is  burning  too  ? 
Drown  in  music  the  earth's  din. 
And  keep  his  own  wild  soul  within 
The  law  of  his  own  harmonj-  ? — 

Mother,  albeit  this  l)e  so, 

Let  me  to  mj^  Heaven  go  ! 

A  little  harp  nie  waits  thereby — 

A  harp  whose  strings  are  golden  all. 

And  tuned  to  music  spherical, 
Hanging  on  the  green  life-tree 
Where  no  willows  ever  be. 
Shall  I  miss  that  harp  of  mine  ? 
Mother,  no! — the  E^ye  divine 
Turned  upon  it,  makes  it  shine  ; 
And  when  I  touch  it,  poems  sweet 
Like  separate  souls  shall  fly  from  it, 
Each  to  an  immortal  fytte. 
We  shall  all  be  poets  there, 
Gazing  on  the  chiefest  Fail*. 

"  Love  !  earth's  love!  and  can  we  love 
Fixedly  where  all  things  move  ? 
Can  the  sinning  love  each  other  ? 

Mother,  mother. 
I  tremble  in  tli}'^  close  embrace, 
I  feel  thy  tears  adown  my  face. 
Thy  prayers  do  keep  me  out  of  bliss— 

O  dreary  earthl^y  love  ! 
Loose  thy  prayer  and  let  me  go 
To  the  place  which  loving  is 
Yet  not  sad  ;  and  when  is  given 
Escape  to  tJiee  from  this  below, 
Thou  shalt  behold  me  that  I  wait 
For  thee  beside  the  happy  Gate, 
And  silence  shall  be  up  in  heaven 
To  hear  our  irreetinsz  kiss." 


§02  ISOBEL'S     CHILD. 

The  niu'se  awakes  in  the  morning  sun, 
And  starts  to  see  beside  her  bed 
The  lady  with  a  grandeur  spread 
Lilce  pathos  o'er  her  face — as  one 
God-satisfied  and  eartli-undone. 
The  babe  upon  her  arn.  was  dead  ! 
And  the  nurse  could  utter  forth  no  crj- — 
She  was  awed  by  the  calm  in  tlie  mother's  eye 

"  Wake,  nurse  !"  the  lady  said 
"  We  are  waking — he  and  I — 
I,  on  earth,  and  he,  in  sky  ! 
And  thou  must  help  me  to  o'erla}^ 
With  garment  white,  this  little  clay 
Which  needs  no  more  our  lullaby. 

"  I  changed  the  cruel  prayer  I  made, 

And  bowed  m^-  meekened  face,  and  praj^ed 

That  God  would  do  His  will !  and  thus 

He  did  it,  nurse  !     He  parted  us. 

And  His  sun  shows  victorious 

The  dead  calm  face — and  /  am  calm. 

And  Heaven  is  hearkening  a  new  psalm. 

"  This  earthly  noise  is  too  an  ear, 
Too  loud,  and  will  not  let  me  hear 
The  little  harp.     My  death  will  soon 
Make  silence." 

And  a  sense  of  tune, 
A  satisfied  love  meanwhile 
Which  nothing  earthl^^  could  despoil, 
Sang  on  within  her  soul. 

Oh  you. 
Earth's  tender  and  impassioned  few, 
Take  courage  to  entrust  your  love 
To  Him  so  Named,  who  guards  above 

Its  ends  and  shall  fulfil  ! 
Breaking  the  narrow  pra3'ers  that  may 
Befit  your  narrow  hearts,  awa}' 

In  His  broad,  loving  wilL 


ROMAUNT     OF     THE     PAGE  203 


THE  ROMAUNT  OF  THE  PAGE. 

A  KNIGHT  of  gallant  deeds 

And  a  3-011  ng  page  at  his  side, 
From  the  holy  war  in  Palestine 

Did  slow  and  thoughtful  ride, 
As  each  were  a  palmer  and  told  for  beads 

The  dews  of  the  eventiile. 

"  O  5'oung  page,"  said  the  knight, 

"  A  noble  page  art  thou  ! 
Thou  fearest  not  to  steep  in  blood 

The  curls  upon  thy  brow  ; 
And  once  in  the  tent,  and  twice  in  the  fight, 

Didst  ward  me  a  mortal  blow." 

"  0  brave  knight,"  said  the  page, 

"  Or  ere  we  hither  came, 
"We  talked  in  tent,  we  talked  in  field. 

Of  the  bloody  battle  game  ; 
But  here,  below  this  greenwood  bough, 

I  cannot  speak  the  same. 

"  Our  troop  is  far  behind, 

The  woodland  calm  is  new  ; 
Our  steeds,  with  slow  grass-muffled  hoofs, 

Tread  deep  the  shadows  through  ; 
And  in  my  mind,  some  blessing  kind 

Is  dropping  with  the  dew. 

"  The  woodland  calm  is  pure — 

I  cannot  choose  but  have 
A  thought  from  these,  o'  the  beechen-trees 

Which  in  our  England  wave. 
And  of  the  little  finches  fine 
Which  sang  there  while  in  Palestine 

The  warrior  hilt  we  drave. 

"  Methinks,  a  moment  gone, 

I  heard  my  mother  praj-  ! 
1  heard,  sir  knight,  the  prayer  for  me 

Wherein  she  passed  away  ; 
And  I  know  the  heavens  are  leaning  down 

To  hear  what  I  shall  say." 


a04  ROM  AUNT     OF     THE     PAGE. 

The  page  spake  calm  and  high, 

As  of  no  mean  degree. 
Perhaps  he  felt  in  nature's  broad 

Full  heart,  his  own  was  free. 
And  the  knight  looked  up  to  his  lifted  eye, 

Then  answered  smilingly- : — 

"  Sir  page,  1  pray  your  grace ! 

Certes,  I  meant  not  so 
To  cross  your  pastoral  mood,  sir  page, 

With  the  crook  of  the  battle  bow  ; 
But  a  knight  may  speak  of  a  lady's  face, 
I  ween,  in  any  mood  or  place, 

If  the  grasses  die  or  grow. 

"  And  this  I  meant  to  say — 

My  lady's  face  shall  shine 
As  ladies'  faces  use,  to  greet 

M3'  page  from  Palestine  ; 
Or,  speak  she  fair  or  prank  she  gay, 

She  is  no  lady  of  mine. 

"  And  this  I  meant  to  fear — 
Her  bower  may  suit  thee  ill ! 

For,  sooth,  in  that  same  field  and  tent. 
Thy  talk  was  somewhat  still ; 

And  fitter  th}'  hand  for  my  knightly  spear 
Than  thj^  tongue  for  my  lady's  will." 

Slowly  and  thankfully 

The  3'oung  page  bowed  his  head : 
His  large  eyes  seemed  to  muse  a  smile, 

Until  he  blushed  instead, 
And  no  lady  in  her  bower  pardie 

Could  blush  more  sudden  red. 
"  Sir  Knight — thy  lady's  bower  to  me 

Is  suited  well,"  he  said. 

Beati,  heati,  mortui! 

From  the  convent  on  the  sea. 

One  mile  off,  or  scarce  as  nigh, 

Swells  the  dirge  as  clear  and  high 

As  if  that,  over  brake  and  lea, 

Bodily  the  wind  did  carry 

The  great  altar  of  St.  Mar}'^, 

And  the  fift^y  tapers  burning  o'er  it, 

And  the  ladv  Abbess  dead  before  it, 


ROM  A  L  NT      OF      THE     PAGE.  205 

And  the  cluuiting  nuns  Avhom  ^yesterweek 
Her  voice  did  charge  and  bless — 
Chanting  steady,  chanting  meek, 
Chanting  witli  a  solemn  breath 
Because  that  they  are  thinking  less 
Upon  the  Dead  than  upon  death  I 
Beali,  beati,  mortui ! 
Now  the  vision  in  the  sound 
Wheeletb  on  the  wind  around. 
Now  it  sleepetli  back,  away — 
The  uplands  will  not  let  it  sta}^ 
To  dark  the  western  sun. 
Mortui  ! — away  at  last — 
Or  ere  the  page's  blush  is  past ! 
And  the  knight  heard  all,  and  the  page  heard  none 

"  A  boon,  thou  noble  knight 

If  ever  I  served  thee  ! 
Though  thou  art  a  knight  and  I  am  a  page, 

Now  grant  a  boon  to  me ; 
And  tell  me  sooth,  ii"  dark  or  bright, 
If  little  loved  or  loved  aright 

Be  the  face  of  thy  ladye." 

Gloomily  looked  the  knight; — 

"  As  a  son  thou  hast  served  me, 
And  would  to  none  I  had  granted  boon 

Except  to  only  thee  ! 
For  haply  then  I  should  love  aright, 
For  then  I  should  know  if  dark  or  bright 

Were  the  face  of  my  ladye. 

"  Yet  ill  it  suits  my  knightly  tongue 

To  grudge  that  granted  boon  1 
That  heavj-  price  from  heart  and  life 

I  paid  in  silence  down. 
The  hand  that  claimed  it,  cleared  in  fine 
My  fathei-'s  fome :  I  swear  bj'  mine, 

That  price  was  nobly  won. 

"  Earl  Walter  was  a  brave  old  Earl- 
He  was  ni}'  father's  friend  ; 

And  while  1  rode  the  lists  at  court, 
And  little  guessed  the  end. 

My  noble  father  in  his  shroud, 

Against  a  slanderer  lying  loud, 
He  rose  \ip  to  defend, 
lb 


206        ROM  AUNT  OF  THE  PAGE. 

"  Oh,  calm  below  the  marble  gray 

M3'  father's  dust  was  strown  ! 
Oh,  meek,  above  the  mai'ble  gray 

His  image  prayed  alone  ! 
The  slanderer  lied — the  wretch  was  brave — 
For,  looking  up  the  minster-nave, 
He  saw  my  father's  knightly  glave 

Was  changed  from  steel  to  stone. 

"  Earl  Walter's  glave  was  steel, 

With  a  brave  old  hand  to  wear  it. 
And  dashed  the  lie  back  in  the  mouth 
Which  lied  against  the  godly  truth 
And  against  the  knightly  merit  I 
The  slanderer,  'neath  the  avenger's  heel. 
Struck  up  the  dagger  in  appeal 
From  stealth}'  lie  to  brutal  force — 
And  out  upon  the  traitor's  corse 
Was  yielded  the  true  spirit. 

"  I  would  mine  hand  had  fought  that  fight 

And  justified  ray  father! 
I  would  mine  heart  had  caught  that  wound 

And  slept  beside  him  rather! 
I  think  it  were  a  better  thing 
Than  murthered  friend  and  marriage-ring 

Forced  on  my  life  together. 

"Wail  shook  Earl  Walter's  house; 

His  true  wife  shed  no  tear ; 
She  lay  upon  her  bed  as  mute 

As  the  Earl  did  on  his  bier: 
Till — '  Ride,  ride  fast,'  she  said  at  last, 

'  And  bring  the  avenged  son  anear ! 
Ride  fast — ride  free,  as  a  dart  can  flee, 
For  white  of  blee  with  waiting  for  me 

Is  the  corse  in  the  next  chambere.' 

"  I  came — I  knelt  beside  her  bed — 
Her  calm  was  worse  than  strife; 
'  My  husband,  for  thy  father  dear, 
Gave  freel}'  when  thou  Avert  not  here 

His  own  and  eke  m}'  life. 
A  boon  !     Of  tliat  sweet  child  we  make 
An  orphan  for  thy  father's  sake 
Make  thou,  for  ours,  a  wife.' 


ROMAUNT      OF      THE      PAGE.  207 

"  I  said,  '  My  steed  neighs  in  the  couit, 

My  bark  rocks  on  the  brine, 
And  the  wnrrior's  vow  I  am  under  now 

To  free  the  pilgrim's  shrine; 
But  fetch  the  ring  and  fetch  the  priest 

And  call  that  daughter  of  thine, 
A.nd  rule  she  wide  from  ray  castle  on  Nyde 

While  I  am  in  Palestine.' 

"  In  the  dark  chambere,  if  the  bride  was  fair, 

Ye  wis,  I  could  not  see, 
But  the  steed  thrice  neighed,  and  the  priest  fast 
prayed. 

And  wedded  fast  were  we, 
Her  mother  smiled  upon  her  bed 
As  at  its  side  we  knelt  to  wed. 

And  the  bride  rose  from  her  knee 
And  kissed  the  smile  of  her  mother  dead, 

Or  ever  she  kissed  me. 

"  My  page,  my  page,  what  grieves  thee  so, 
That  the  tears  run  down  thy  face?" — 

"  Alas,  alas  !  mine  own  sister 

Was  in  thy  lady's  case ! 
Jut  sJie  laid  down  the  silks  she  wore 

A.nd  followed  him  she  wed  before, 

Disguised  as  his  true  servitor. 
To  the  ver}^  battle-place." 

And  wept  the  page,  but  laughed  the  kuight— 

A  careless  laugh  laughed  he : 
"  Well  done  it  were  for  thy  sistei', 

But  not  for  ni}'  lad^'e  ! 
My  love,  so  please  3'ou,  shall  requite 
No  woman,  whetiier  dark  or  bright, 

Unwomaned  if  she  be." 

The  page  stopped  weeping  and  smiled  cold— 

"  Your  wisdom  may  declare 
That  womanhood  is  proved  the  best 
By  golden  brooch  and  glossy  vest 

The  mincing  ladies  wear; 
Yet  is  it  proved,  and  was  of  old, 
Anear  as  well,  I  dare  to  hold, 

By  truth,  or  by  despair." 

He  smiled  no  more,  he  wept  no  more, 
But  passionate  he  spake — 


208        ROM  AUNT  OF  THE  PAGE. 

*  Oh,  womanly  slie  pra^^ed  in  tent, 

When  none  beside  did  waive  ! 
Dh.  womanly  she  paled  in  fight, 

For  one  beloved's  sake! — 
And  her  little  hand  defiled  with  blood, 
Her  tender  tears  of  womanhood 

Most  woman-pure  did  make  !" 

— "  Well  done  it  were  for  thy  sister 

Thou  tellest  well  her  tale  ! 
But  for  my  lady,  she  shall  pray 

P  the  kirk  of  Nydesdale. 
!Not  dread  for  me  but  love  for  me 

Shall  make  my  lady  pale  ; 
No  casque  shall  hide  her  woman's  tear- 
It  shall  have  room  to  trickle  clear 

Behind  her  woman's  veil." 

— "  But  what  if  she  mistook  thy  mind 

And  foiloAved  thee  to  strife. 
Then  kneeling,  did  entreat  thy  love, 

As  Paynims  ask  for  life?" 
— "  I  would  forgive,  and  evermore 
Would  love  her  as  my  servitor, 

But  little  as  mj^  wife. 

"  Look  up — there  is  a  small,  bright  cloud 

Alone  amid  the  skies  ! 
So  high,  so  pure,  and  so  apart, 

A  woman's  honor  lies." 
The  page  looked  up — the  cloud  was  sheen — 
A  sadder  cloud  did  rush,  I  ween. 

Betwixt  it  and  his  eyes  : 

Then  dimly  dropped  his  e^'es  away 

From  welkin  unto  lull — 
Ha  !  who  rides  there  ? — the  page  is  'ware. 

Though  the  cry  at  his  heart  is  still ! 
And  the  page  seeth  all  and  the  knight  seeth  none 
Though  banner  and  spear  do  fleck  the  suu, 

And  the  Saracens  ride  at  will. 

He  speaketh  calm,  he  speaketh  low — 

"  Ride  fast,  my  master,  ride, 
Or  ere  within  the  broadening  dark 

The  narrow  shadows  hide." 
*'  Yea,  fust,  my  page,  I  will  do  so, 

And  keep  thou  at  my  side." 


R  0  M  A  U  N  T      OF     THE     PAGE. 


20J. 


/ 


at 


"Now  nay,  now  nay,  ride  on  thy  way, 

Thy  faithful  page  i^recede. 
For  I  must  loose  on  saddle-bow 
My  battle-casque  that  galls,  I  trow, 

The  shoulder  of  my  steed  ; 
And  I  must  pray,  as  I  did  vow, 

For  one  in  bitter  need. 

"Ere  night  I  shall  be  near  to  thee — 

Now  ride,  my  master,  lide  1 
Ere  night,  as  parted  spirits  cleave 
To  mortals  too  beloved  to  leave, 

I  shall  be  at  thy  side." 
The  knight  smiled  free  at  the  fantas}', 

And  adown  the  dell  did  ride. 

Had  the  knight  looked  up  to  the  page's  face, 

No  smile  the  word  had  won  : 
Had  the  knight  looked  up  to  the  page's  face 

1  ween  he  had  never  gone : 
Had  the  knight  looked  back  to  the  page's  geste, 

I  ween  he  had  turned  anon  ! 
For  dread  was  the  woe  in  the  face  so  young. 
And  wild  was  the  silent  geste  that  fluns: 
Casque,  sword  to  earth — as  the  boy  down-sprung, 

And  stood — alone,  alone. 

He  clenched  his  hands  as  if  to  hold 

His  soul's  great  agony — 
"Have  I  renounced  my  womanhood, 

For  wifehood  unto  thee, 
And  is  this  the  last,  last  look  of  thine 

That  ever  I  shall  see  ? 

"Yet  God  thee  save,  and  mayst  thou  ha\e 

A  lady  to  th3^  mind. 
More  woman-proud  and  half  as  true 

As  one  thou  leav'st  behind  1 
And  God  me  take  with  Him  to  dwell — 

For  Him  I  cannot  love  too  well, 
As  I  have  loved  my  kind." 

She  looketh  up  in  earth's  despair, 

The  hopeful  Heaven's  to  seek. 
That  little  cloud  still  floateth  there, 

Whereof  her  Loved  did  speak, 
How  bright  the  little  cloud  appears  I 
Her  eyelids  fall  upon  the  tears. 

And  the  tears  down  cither  cheek. 
IS*  0 


.V 


''■; 


,<^ 


:10  ROM  AUNT     OF     THE     PAGE. 

The  tramp  of  hoof,  the  flash  of  steel — 
The  Paynims  round  her  coming! 

The  sound  and  sight  have  made  her  calm- 
False  page,  hut  truthful  woman  1 

She  stands  amid  them  all  unmoved. 

A  heart  once  broken  by  the  loved 
Is  strong  to  meet  the  foeman. 

"  Ho,  Christian  page  !  art  keeping  sheep, 
From  pouring  wine-cups  resting?" — 

"  I  keep  my  master's  noble  name, 
For  warring,  not  for  feasting  ; 

And  if  that  here  Sir  Hubert  were, 

My  master  brave,  my  master  dear, 
Ye  would  not  stay  to  question." 

"  Where  is  thj'^  master,  scornful  page, 
That  we  may  slay  or  bind  him  ?" — 

"  Now  search  the  lea  and  search  the  wood. 
And  see  if  3'e  can  find  him  ! 

Nathless,  as  hath  been  often  tried, 

Your  Paynim  horses  faster  ride 
Before  him  than  behind  him." 

"  Give  smoother  answers,  lying  page, 

Or  perish  in  the  lying." — 
"  I  trow  that  if  the  warrior  brand 
Beside  my  foot,  were  in  my  hand, 

'Twere  better  at  repl3ing." 
They  cursed  her  deep,  they  smote  her  low 
They  cleft  her  golden  ringlets  through; 

The  Loving  is  the  Dying. 

She  felt  the  scimitar  gleam  down. 

And  met  it  from  beneath 
With  smile  more  bright  in  victory 

Than  any  swoi'd  from  sheath — 
Which  flashed  across  her  lip  serene, 
Most  like  the  spirit-light  between 

The  darks  of  life  and  death. 

Ingemisco,  ingemisco  ! 
From  the  convent  on  the  sea. 
Now  it  sweepeth  solemnly  ! 
As  over  wood  and  over  lea 
Bodily  the  wind  did  carry 
The  great  altar  of  St.  Mary, 


LAY      OF      THE     ]J  R  O  W  N     R  0  S  A  R  i'.  211 

And  llic  fifty  tapers  paling  o'er  it, 
And  tlie  Lady  Abbess  stark  before  it, 
And  the  vvearj-nuns  witli  hearts  that  faintly 
Beat  along  their  voices  saintly — ■ 

Ingemiaco,  ingemisco  ! 
Dirge  for  abbess  laid  in  shroud, 
Sweepeth  o'er  the  shroudless  Dead, 
Page  or  lady,  as  we  said. 
With  the  dews  upon  her  head, 
All  as  sad  if  not  as  loud. 

Ingemiaco,  ingemiaco  ! 
Is  ever  a  lament  begun 
By  an^'^  mourner  under  sun, 
Which,  ere  it  endeth,  suits  but  one  ?" 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  BROWN  ROSARY. 

FIRST  PART. 

"  Onora,  Onora  " — her  mother  is  calling, 
Siie  sits  at  tiie  lattice  and  hears  the  dew  fallino- 
Drop  after  drop  from  the  sycamores  laden 
With  dew  as  with  blossom,  and  calls  home  the  maiden, 
"Night  Cometh,  Onora." 

She  looks  down  the  garden-wall  caverned  with  trees, 
To  the  limes  at  the  end  where  the  green  arbor  is — 
"  Some  sweet  thought  or  other  may  keep  where  it  found 

her, 
While  forgot  or  unseen  in  the  dreamlight  around  her 
Night  Cometh — Onora  !" 

She  looks  up  the  forest  whose  alle3's  shoot  on 
Like  the  mute  minster-aisles  when  the  anthem  is  done. 
And  the  choristers  sitting  with  faces  aslant 
Feel  the  silence  to  consecrate  more  than  the  chant — 
"  Onora,  Onora !" 

And  forward  she  looketh  across  the  brown  heath — . 
"  Onora,  art  coming  ?" — what  is  it  she  sceth  ? 
Nought,  nought,  but  the  grey  border-stone  that  is  wist 
To  dilate  and  assume  a  wild  shape  in  the  mist — ■ 
"  My  daughter!" — Then  over 


212  LAY     OF     THE     BROWN     ROSARY. 

The  casement  she  leaneth,  and  as  she  doth  so, 
She  is  'ware  of  her  little  son  plaj'ing  below: 
"Now  where  is  Onora?" — He  hung  down  his  head 
And  spake  not,  then  answering  blushed  scarlet-red— 
"  At  the  tryst  with  her  lover." 

But  his  mother  was  wroth.     In  a  sternness  quoth  she, 
"  As  thou  play'st  at  the  ball,  art  thou  playing  with  mc  ? 
When  we  know  that  her  lover  to  battle  is  gone, 
And  the  saints  know  above  that  she  loveth  but  one 
And  will  ne'er  wed  another  ?" 

Then  the  boy  wept  aloud.     'Twas  a  fair  sight  yet  sad 
To  see  the  teai's  run  down  the  sweet  blooms  he  had  : 
He  stamped  with  his  foot,  said — "  The  saints  know  .! 

lied 
Because  truth  that  is  wicked  is  fittest  to  hide  ! 

Must  I  utter  it,  mother?" 

In  his  vehement  childhood  he  hurried  within. 
And  knelt  at  her  feet  as  in  pra\-er  against  sin : 
But  a  child  at  a  prayer  never  sobbeth  as  he — 
"Oh!  she  sits  with  the  nun  of  the  brown  rot^ary, 
At  nights  in  the  ruin  1 

"The  old  couveiit  ruin  the  ivy  rots  oft', 
Where  the  owl  hoots   by  day,  and  the  toad  is  sun- 
proof: 
Where  no  singing-birds  build,  and  the  trees  gaunt  and 

.  grey 
As  in  stormy  sea-coasts  appear  blasted  one  way — • 
But  is  this  the  wind's  doing? 

"  A  nun  in  the  east  wall  was  buried  alive. 

Who    mocked    at    the  priest   when  he    called  her   to 

shrive — 
And  shrieked  such  a  curse,  as  the  stone  took  her  breath, 
The  old  abbess  fell  backward  and  swooned  unto  death, 
With  an  Ave  half-spoken. 

"  I  tried  once  to  pass  it,  myself  and  my  hound. 
Till,  as  fearing  the  lash,  down  he  shivered  to  ground. 
A  brave  hound,  my  mother !  a  brave  hound,  ye  wot ! 
And  the  wolf  thought  the  same  with  his  fangs  at  her 
throat 

In  the  pass  of  the  Brocken, 

"  At  dawn  and  at  eve,  mother,  who  sitteth  there, 
With  the  brown  rosary  never  used  for  a  prayer? 


LAY     OF     THE     BROWN      ROSARY.  213 

StC)op  low,  mother,  low  !     If  we  went  there  to  see, 
What  an  ngly  great  hole  in  that  east  wall  must  be 
At  dawn  and  at  even  ! 

"  Who  meet  there,  my  mother,  at  dawn  and  at  even  ? 
Who  meet  by  tliat  wall,  never  looking  to  heaven  ? 

0  sweetest  my  sister,  what  doeth  with  tliee, 
The  ghost  of  a  nun  with  a  brown  rosaiy 

And  a  laee  turned  from  heaven  ? 

"  St.  Agnes  o'erwatcheth  m^^  dreams,  and  erewhile 

1  have  felt  through   mine   eyelids  the  warmth  of  her 

smile ; 
But  last  night,  as  a  sadness  like  pity  came  o'er  her, 
She  whispered — '  Say  two  prayers  at  dawn  for  Onora! 

The  Tempted  is  sinning.'  " 

Onora,  Onora  !  they  heard  her  not  coming — 

Not  a  step    on  the   grass,    not  a    voice,  through  the 

gloaming ; 
But  her  motlier  looked  up,  and  she  stood  on  tlie  floor 
Fair  and  still  as  the  moonlight  that  came  there  before, 

And  a  smile  just  beginning. 

It  touches  her  lii)s — but  it  dares  not  arise 
To  tiie  height  of  tlie  mystical  sphei-e  of  her  eyes  ; 
And  the  large  musing  eyes,  neither  joj'ous  nor  sorrj"", 
Sing  on  like  the  angels  in  separate  glory, 
Between  clouds  of  amber. 

For   the    hair  droops  in    clouds    amber-colored,   till 

stirred 
Into  gold  by  the  gesture  that  comes  with  a  word  ; 
While — 0  soft! — her  speaking  is  so  interwound 
Of  the  dim  and  the  sweet,  'tis  a  twilight  of  sound 
And  floats  through  the  chamber. 

"  Since  thou  shrivest  ni}-  brother,  fair  mother,"  said 

she, 
"  I  count  on  thy  priesthood  for  marrying  of  me, 
And  I  know  by  tlie  hills  that  the  battle  is  done — 
That  my  lover  rides  on — will  be  here  with  the  sun, 

'Neath  the  ej-es  that  behold  thee." 

Her  mother  sate  silent — too  tender,  I  wis. 

Of  the  smile  her  dead  father  smiled  djing  to  kiss. 

But   the    boy    started    up    pale  with   tears,    passion 

wrought — 
"  0  wicked  fair  sister,  the  hills  utter  nought! 

If  he  Cometh,  who  told  thee?  " 


214  LAY      OF      THE      BROWN      ROSARY. 

"  I  know  by  the  hills,"  she  resumed  calm  and  clear, 
"  By  the  beauty  upon  them,  that  he  is  anear. 
Did  they  ever  look  so  since  he  bade  me  adieu? 
Oh,  love  in  the  waking,  sweet  brother,  is  true 
As  St.  Agnes  in  sleeping." 

Half-ashamed  and  half-softened  the  bo}^  did  not  speak, 
And  the  blush  met  the  lashes  which  fell  on  his  cheek : 
S'lQ  bowed  down  to  kiss  him — Dear  saints,  did  he  see 
Oi   feel  on  her  bosom  the  brown  rosary, 
That  he  shrank  away  weeping  ? 


SECOND   PART. 
A  bed. — Onora  sleeping.  Angels,  hut  not  near. 

First  Angel. 

Must  we  stand  so  far,  and  she 
So  \QYy  fair  ? 

Second  Angel. 

As  bodies  be. 

First  Angel. 

And  slie  so  mild? 

Second  Angel. 

As  spirits  v,'hen 
They  meeken  not  to  God,  but  men. 

First  Angel. 

And  she  so  young — that  I  who  bring 
Good  dieams  for  saintly  children,  might 
Mistake  that  small  soft  face  to-night, 
And  fetch  her  such  a  blessed  thing, 
That  at  her  waking  she  would  weep 
For  childhood  lost  anew  in  sleep. 
How  hath  she  sinned  ! 
Second  Angel. 

In  bartering  love ; 
God's  love — for  man's. 

First  Angel. 

We  may  reprove 
The  world  for  this,  not  onl}'  her. 
Let  me  approach  to  breathe  away 
This  dust  o'  the  heart  with  holy  air. 

Second  Angel. 

Stand  off!  She  sleeps,  and  did  not  pray. 

First  Angel. 

Did  none  pray  for  her  ? 


LAY     OF     THE     BROWN     ROSARY.  216 

Second  Angel. 

Ay,  a  child— 

Who  never,  praying,  wept  before  : 

AVhile,  in  a  mother  undefiled 
Pra3'er  goeth  on  in  sleep,  as  true 

And  pauseless  as  the  pulses  do. 
Fh^st  A)} gel.' 

Then  I  approach. 
Second  Angel. 

It  is  not  WILLED. 

First  Angel. 

One  word :  is  she  redeemed  ? 
Second  Angel. 

No  more  ? 
The  place  is  filled. 

[Angels  vanish. 
Evil  SjmHt  in  a  Nun^s  garb  by  the  bed. 
Forbear  that  dream — forbear  that  dream  !  too  near  to 
Heaven  it  leaned. 
Onora  in  deep. 
Nay,  leave  me  this — but  only  this  !  'tis  but  a  dream, 
sweet  fiend  1 
Evil  Spirit. 
It  is  a  thought. 
Onora  in  sleep. 

A  sleeping  thought — most  innocent  of  good. 
It  doth  the  devil  no  harm,  sweet  fiend !  it  cannot  if  it 

would. 
I  say  in  it  no  holy  hymn,  I  do  no  holy  work, 
I  scarcely  hear  the  sabbath-bell  that  chimeth  from  the 
kirk. 

Evil  Spirit. 
Forbear  that  dream — forbear  that  dream  I 
Onora  in  sleep. 

Nay,  let  me  dream  at  least. 
That  far-off  bell,  it  may  be  took  for  viol  at  a  feast. 
I  onl}^  walk  among  the  fields,  beneath  the  autumn-sun, 
With  my  dead  father,  hand  in  hand,  as  I  have  often 
done. 
Evil  Spirit. 
Forbear  that  dream — forbear  that  dream  ! 
Onora  in  sleep. 

Nay,  sweet  fiend,  let  me  go. 
I  never  more  can  walk  with /uhj,  oh,  never  more  but  so. 


216  LAY      OF     THE      IJllOWN     R  0  si  A  R  T . 

For  the}^  have  tied  my  father's  feet  beneath  the  kirk 

yard  stone, 
Oh,  deep  and   straight,  oh,  very   straight !  they  move 

at  nights  alone : 
And  then   he  calleth   through   my  dreams,  he  calleth 

tenderlv, 
"  Come  forth,  my  daughter,  my  beloved,  and  walk  the 

fields  with  me!" 
Evil  Spirit. 
Forbear  that  dream,  or  else  disj^rove  its  pureness  by 

a  sign. 
Onof-a  in  sleep. 
Speak   on,    thou   shalt   be    satisfied !    my  word  shall 

answel*  thine. 
I  heard  a  bird  which  used  to  sing  when  I  a  child  was 

praying, 
I  see  the  poppies  in  the  corn  I  used  to  sport  away  in. 
What  shall  I  do — tread  down  the  dew,  and  pull  the 

blossoms  blowing  ? 
Or  clap  m}^  wicked  hands  to  fright  the  finches  from 

the  rowen  ? 
Evil  Spirit. 
Thou  shalt  do  something  harder  still.     Stand  up  where 

thou  dost  stand 
Among  the  fields  of  Dreamland  with  thy  father  hand 

in  hand. 
And  clear  and  slow,  repeat  the  vow — declare  its  cause 

and  kind. 
Which,  not  to  break  in  sleep  or  wake,  thou  bearest  on 

thy  mind. 
On  or  a  in  sleep. 
I  bear  a  vow  of  sinful  kind,  a  vow  for  mournful  cause  : 
I  vowed  it  deep,  I  vowed  it  strong — the  spirits  laughed 

applause : 
The  spirits  trailed  along  the  pines  low  laughter  like 

a  breeze, 
While,  high  atween  their  swinging  tops,  the  stars  ap' 

peared  to  freeze. 
Evil  Sjnrit. 
More  calm  and  free — speak  out  to  me,  why  such  a  vow 

was  made. 

Onoro.  in  sleep. 
Because  that  God  decreed  my  death,  and  I  shrar.k 
back  afraid. 


LAY      OF     THE      BROWN      ROSARY.  217 

Have  patience,  0  dead  father  mine  !  I  did  not  fear  tc 

die ; — • 
I  wish  I  were  a  young  dead  child,  and  had  thy  com 

pany  ! 
I  wish  I  hiy  beside  thy  feet,  a  buried  three-year  child. 
And  wearing  only  a  kiss  of  thine  upon  tliy  lips  tliut 

smiled ! 
The  linden-tree  that  covers  thee  might  so  have  shad- 
owed twain. 
For  death  itself  I  did  not  fear — 'tis  love  that  makes 

the  pain. 
Love  feareth  death.     I  was  no  child — I  was  betrothed 

that  day ; 
I  wore  a  troth-kiss  on  my  lips  I  could  not  give  awa_y. 
How  could  I  bear  to  lie  content  and  still  beueaLh  a 

stone, 
And  feel  mine  own  betrothed  go  b}' — alas  1  no  more 

mine  own — 
Go  leading  b}'^  in  wedding   pomp    some  lovel^^   lady 

brave, 
With  cheeks  that  blushed  as  red  as  rose,  while  mine 

were  wliite  in  grave  ? 
How  could  I  bear  to  sit  in  Heaven,  on  e'er  so  high  a 

throne, 
And  hear  him  sa^''  to  her — to  her!  that  else  he  loveth 

none  ? 
Though  e'er  so  high  I  sate  above,  though  e'er  so  low 

he  spake, 
As  clear  as  thunder  I  should  hear  the  new  oath  he 

might  take. 
That    her's,    forsooth,   were    heavenly   eyes — ah,    me, 

while  very  dim 
Some  heavenly  e3'es  (indeed  of  Heaven  !)  would  darken 

down  to  him. 

Evil  Spirit. 
Who  told  thee  thou  wast  called  to  death  ? 

Onora  in  sleep. 

I  sate  all  night  beside  thee — 
The  gre}'  owl  on  the  ruined  wall  shut  both  his  eyes  to 

hide  thee, 
And  ever  he  flapped  his  heavy  wing  all  brokenly  and 

weak, 
A.nd  the  long  grass  waved  against  the  sky,  around  Ida 
gasping  beak. 
19 


218  LAY     OP     TUE      iiROWN      ROSARY. 

I  sate  beside  thee  all  the  night,  while  the  moonlight 
la}'^  forlorn, 

Strewn  round  us  like  a  dead  world's  shroud,  in 
ghastly  fragments  torn. 

And  through  the  night,  and  through  the  hush,  and 
over  the  flapping  wing. 

We  heard  beside  the  Heavenl}'  Gate  the  angels  mur- 
muring : — 

We  heard  them  say,  "  Put  day  to  da}',  and  count  tli^ 
da3's  to  seven, 

And  God  will  draw  Onora  up  the  golden  stairs  ol 
Heaven  ; 

And  3'et  the  Evil  ones  have  leave  that  purpose  to  defer, 

For  if  she  has  no  need  of  Him,  He  has  no  need  of  her." 
Evil  Spirit. 

Speak  out  to  me,  speak  bold  and  free. 

Onora  in  sleep. 

And  then  I  heard  thee  say — 
"  I  count  upon  my  rosary  brown  the  hours  thou  hast 

to  stay  ! 
Yet  God  permits  us  Evil  ones  to  put  by  that  decree. 
Since  if  thou  has  no  need  of  Him,  He  has  no  need  of 

thee — 
And  if  thou  wilt  forego  the  sight  of  angels,  veril}' 
Thy  true  love  gazing  on  th}'  face,  shall  guess  what 

angels  be  ; 
Nor    bride    shall    pass,    save    thee"  .  .  .  Alas ! — my 

father's  hand's  acold. 
The  meadows  seem — 
Evil  Spirit. 

Forbear  the  dream  or  let  the  vow  be  told  ! 
Onora  in  sleep). 
I  vowed  upon  my  rosary  brown,  this  string  of  antique 

beads, 
By  charnel  lichens  overgrown,  and  dank  among  the 

weeds. 
This  rosar}'-  brown,  which  is  thine  own — lost  soul  ul 

buried  nun. 
Who,  lost  by  vow,  wduldst  render  now  all  souls  alike 

undone — 
I  vowed  upon  thy  rosary  brown, — and,  till  such  vow 

should  break, 
A  pledge  always  of  living  days,  'twas  hung  around  my 

neck — 


LAY      OF      THE      BROWN      R  0  S  A  H  Y.  2l\i 

I  vowed  to  thee  on  rosary,  (dead  father  look  not  so  I) 
/  would  not  thank  God  in  my  weal,  nor  seek  God  in 
my  tuoe. 
Evil  Spirit 
And  canst  thou  prove — 
Onora  in  sleep. 

0  love  !  my  love  !  I  felt  him  near  again  1 
I  saw  his  steed  on  mountain-head,  I  heard  it  on  the 

«     plain ! 
Was   this  no  weal   for  me   to  feel  ?    is   greater   weal 

than  this  ? 
Yet  when  he  came,  I  wept  his  name — and  the  angels 
heard  but  Ma. 
Evil  Spirit. 
Well  done,  well  done  ! 

Onora  in  sleej?. 
Ay  me  !  the  sun  .  .  .  the  dreamlight  'gins  to  pine — 
Ay  me  !  how  dread  can  look  the  Dead  ! — Aroint  thee, 
father  mine  ! 

She  starteth  from  slumber,  she  sitteth  upright, 

And  her  breath  comes  in  sobs  Avhile  she  stares  through 

the  night. 
•There  is  nought.     The  great  willow,  her  lattice  before, 
Large-drawn  in  the  moon,  lieth  calm  on  the  floor. 
But  her  hands  tremble  fast  as  their  pulses,  and  free 
From  the  death-clasp,  close  over — the  brown  rosary. 


THIRD   PART. 

'Tis  a  morn  for  a  bridal ;  the  merry  bride-bell 
Rings  clear  through  the  green-wood  that  skirts  the 

chapelle, 
And  the  priest  at  the  altar  awaiteth  the  bride. 
And  the  sacristans  slyl}^  are  jesting  aside 
At  the  work  shall  be  doing. 

While  down  through  the  wood  rides  that  fair  company, 
The  youths  with  the  courtship,  the  maids  with  the  glee, 
Till  the  chapel-cross  opens  to  sight,  and  at  once 
All  the  maids  sigh  demurely  and  think  of  the  nonce, 
"  And  so  endeth  a  wooing  1" 

And  the  bride  and  the  bridegroom  are  leading  the  way 
With  his  hand  on  her  rein,  and  a  word  3'et  to  say: 


220  LAY     OF     THE      BROWN     ROSARY. 

Her  dropt  eyelids  ouggest  the  soft  answers  beneath, 
And  the  little  quick  smiles  come  and  go  with  herbreathj 
When  she  sigtieth  or  speaketii. 

And  the  tender  bride-motlier  breaks  off  unaware 
From  an  Ave,  to  think  that  her  daughter  is  fair, 
Till  in  Hearing  the  cliapel  and  glancing  before 
She  seeth  her  litle  son  stand  at  the  door. 
Is  it  play  that  he  seeketh  ? 

Is  it  play  ?  when  his  eyes  wander  innocent-wild, 
And  sublimed  with  a  sadness  unfitting  a  child  ? 
lie  trembles  not,  weeps  not — the  passion  is  done, 
And  calmly  he  kneels  in  their  midst,  with  the  sun 
On  his  head  like  a  glory. 

"O  fair-featured  maids,  ye  are  many  !"  he  cried — 
"  But,  in  fairness  and  vileness,  who  matcheth  the  bride  ? 
0  brave-hearted  youths,  3'e  are  many  I  but  whom, 
For  the  courage  and  woe,  can  ye  match  with  the  groom, 
As  ye  see  them  before  ye?" 

Out  spake  the  bride's  mother,  "  The  vileness  is  thine. 
If  thou  shame  thine  own  sister^  a  bride  at  the  shrine  !" 
Out  spake  the  bride's  lover,  "  The  vileness  be  mine. 
If  he  shame  mine  own  wife  at  the  hearth  or  the  shrine, 
And  the  charge  be  unproved. 

"  Bring  the  charge,  prove  the  charge,  brother  !  speak 

it  aloud. 
Let  thy  father  and  her's,  hear  it  deep  in  his  shroud  !" 
. — "  0  father,  thou  seest — for  dead  eyes  can  see — 
How  she  wears  on  her  bosom,  a  brown  rosary. 
0  my  father  beloved  !" 

Then  outlaughed    the    bridegroom,    and    outlaughed 

withal 
Both  maidens  and  3'ouths,  by  the  old  chapel-wall. 
"  So  she  weareth  no  love-gift,  kind  brother,"  quoth  he^ 
"  She  may  wear  and  she  listeth,  a  brown  rosary, 
Like  a  pure-hearted  lady." 

Then  swept  through  the  chapel  the  long  bridal  train 
Tliough  he  spake  to  the  bride  she  replied  not  again  : 
On,  as  one  in  a  dream,  pale  and  stately  she  went 
Where  the  altar-lights  burn  o'er  the  great  sacrament, 
Faint  with  daylight,  but  steady. 

But  her  brother  had  passed  in  between  them  and  her. 
And  calml}^  knelt  down  on  tlie  higli-altar  stair — • 


LAY      or      THE      BROWN      ROSAIIY.  221 

Ofan  infantine  asi)ect  so  stern  to  tlie  view 
That  the  priest  could  not  smile  on  the  child's  ejos  of 
blue 

As  he  would  for  another. 

He  knelt  like  a  child  mavble-sculptured  and  white, 
'i'hat  seems  kneeling  t(^  pray  on  the  tomb  of  a  knight, 
With  a  look  taken  up  to  each  iris  of  stone 
From  the  greatness  and  death  where  he  kneelotli,  but 
none 

From  the  face  of  a  mother. 

"  In  3'our  chapel,  O  priest,  ye  have  wedded  and  shriven 
Fair  wives  for  the  hearth,  and  fair  sinners  for  Heaven  1 
But  this  fairest  my  sister,  ye  think  now  to  wed. 
Bid  her  kneel  where  she  standeth,  and  shrive  her  in- 
stead. 

0  shrive  her  and  wed  not !" 

In  tears,  the  bride's  mother — "  Sir  priest,  unto  thee. 
Would  he  lie,  as  he  lied  to  this  fair  company." 
In  wrath,  the  bride's  lover — "  The  lie  shall  be  clear  1 
Speak  it  out,  boy  !  the  saints  in  their  niches  shall  hear 

Be  the  charge  proved  or  said  not." 
« 
Then  serene  in  his  childhood  he  lifted  his  face. 
And  his  voice  sounded  holy  and  fit  for  the  place. 
"  Look  down  from  your  niches,  ye  still  saints,  and  see 
How  she  wears  on  her  bosom  a  brown  rosary! 

Is  it  used  for  the  praying  ?" 

The  3'ouths  looked  aside — to  laugh  there  were  a  sin ■ 

And  the  maidens'  lips  trembled  from  smiles  shut  within. 
Quoth  the  priest,  "  Thou  art  wild,  pretty  boy  !  Blessed 

she 
Who  pi'efers  at  her  bridal  a  brown  rosary 
To  a  Avorldly  arraying!" 

The  bridegroom  spake  low  and  led  onward  the  bride, 
And  before  the  high  altar  they  stood  side  by  side  : 
The  rite-book  is  opened,  the  rite  is  begun. 
They  have  knelt  down  together  to  rise  up  as  one. 
Who  laughed  by  the  altar  ? 

The  maidens  looked  forward,  the3-ouths  looked  around 
The  bridegroom's  eye  flashed  from  his  prayer  at  the 
sound  ; 

19* 


222  LAY      OF      THE      BROWN     ROSARY. 

And  each  saw  the  bride,  as  if  no  bride  she  were, 
Gazing  cold  at  tlie  priest  without  gesture  of  [iraN^er, 
As  he  read  from  the  psalter. 

The  priest  never  knew  that  slie  did  so,  but  still 
He  felt  a  power  on  him  too  strong  for  his  will. 
And  whenever  the  Great  Name  was  there  to  be  read, 
His  voice  sank  to  silence — that  could  not  be  said, 
Or  the  air  could  not  hold  it. 

"I  have  sinned,"  quoth  he,  "  I  have  sinned,  I  wot'" — 
And  the  tears  ran  adown  his  old  cheeks  at  the  thought. 
They  dropped  fast  on  the  book,  but  he  read  on  the 

same, 
And  a3'e  was  the  silence  where  should  be  the  Name- 
As  the  choristers  told  it. 

The  rite-book  is  closed,  and  the  rite  being  done 
Tho}'^  who  knelt  down  together,  arise  up  as  one. 
Fair  riseth  the  bride — oh,  a  fair  bride  is  she — 
But,  for  all  (think  the  maidens)  that  brown  rosary, 
No  saint  at  her  praying  ! 

What  aileth  the  bridegroom  ?     He  glares  blank  and 

wide — 
Then  suddenly  turning  he  kisscth  the  bride — 
His  lip  stung  her  with  cold;  she  glanced   upwardly 

mute : 
"Mine  own  wife,"  he  said,  and  fell  stark  at  her  foot 
In  the  word  he  was  saying. 

Tliej'  have  lifted  him  up — but  his  head  sinks  away. 
And  his  face  showeth  bleak  in  the  sunshine  and  grey 
Leave  him  now  where  he  lieth — for  oh,  never  more 
Will  he  kneel  at  an  altar  or  stand  on  a  floor! 
Let  his  bride  gaze  upon  him. 

Long  and  still  was  her  gaze  while  they  chafed  him 

there 
And  breathed  in  the  mouth  whose  last  life  had  kissed 

her. 
But  when  the}''  stood  up — only  they  !  with  a  start 
The  shriek  from  her  soul  struck  her  pale  lips  apart — 
She  has  lived  and  forgone  him  ! 

And  low  on  his  body  she  droppeth  adown — 

"  Didst  call  me  thine  own  wife,  beloved — thine  own  ? 


li  A  Y      OF     THE      B  H  0  W  N      ROSARY.  223 

Then  take  Uiinc  own  wiili  thee  !  thy  coldness  is  warm 
To  the  workl's  cold  without  thee!     Come,   keep  nie 
IVom  harm 

In  a  calm  of  thy  teaching." 

She  looked  in  his  face  earnest-long,  as  in  sooth 
Tlierc  were  hope  of  an  answer — and  then  kissed  his 

mouth. 
And  with  head  on  his  bosom,  wept,  wept  bitterly — 
"  Now,  0  God,  take  pity — take  pity  on  me  ! — 
God,  hear  my  beseeching  !" 

She  was  'ware  of  a  shadow  that  crossed  where  she  lay. 
She  was  'ware  of  a  presence  that  withered  the  day — 
Wild  she  sprang  to  her  feet — "  1  surrender  to  tliee 
The  l)roken  vow's  pledge — the  accursed  rosary — 
I  am  ready  for  dying!" 

She  dashed  it  in  scorn  to  the  marble-paved  ground 
Wiicre  it  fell  mute  as  snow,  and  a  weird  music-sound 
Crept  up,  like  a  chill,  up  the  aisles  long  and  dim — 
As  the  fiends  tried  to  mock  at  the  choristers'  hj'mn 
And  moaned  in  the  trying. 


FOURTH  PART. 

Onor.\  looketh  listlessly  adown  the  garden  walk  : 

"I  am  weary,  0  my  motlier,  of  th}^  tender  talk. 

T  am  weary  of  the  trees  a-waving  to  and  fro. 

Of  the  stedfast  skies  above,  the  running  brooks  below. 

All  tilings  are  the  same  but  I — only  I  am  dreary. 

And,  mother,  of  my  dreariness  behold  me  very  weary. 

"  Mother,  brother,  pull  the  flowers  I  planted  in  the 

spring. 
And  smiled  to  think  I  should  smile  more  upon  their 

gathering. 
The  bees  will  find  out  other  flowers — oh,  pull  them, 

dearest  mine, 
And    carry    them    and    carry   me   before    St.  Agnes' 

shrine." 
Whereat  thej'  pulled  the  summer  flowers  she  planted 

in  the  spring. 
And  her  aui  them  all  mournfully  to  Agnes'  shrine  did 

brina:. 


224  LAY      UK      THE      miOAVN      ROSARY. 

She  looked  up  to  the  pictured  saint  and  gently  shook 

her  head — 
"The  picture  is  too  calm  for  me — too  calm  for  ?)je," 

she  said  : 
"  The  little  flowers  we  brought  with  us,  before  it  we 

may  lay, 
For  those  are  used  to  look  at  heaven — but  /  must  turn 

away, 
Because  no  sinner  under  sun  can  dare  or  bear  to  gaze 
On  God's  or  angel's  holiness,  except  In  Jesus'  face." 
She  spoke  with   i^assion  after  pause — "  And  were  it 

wisely  done. 
If  we  who  cannot  gaze  above,  should  walk  the  earth 

alone  ? 
If  we  whose  virtue  is  so  weak,  should  have  a  will  so 

strong. 
And  stand  blind  on  the  rocks,  to  choose  the  right  path 

from  the  w-rong  ? 
To  choose,  perhaps,  a  love-lit  hearth,  instead  of  love 

and  Heaven — 
A  single  rose,  for  a  rose-tree,  which    beareth   seven 

times  seven  ? 
A  rose  that  droppeth  from  the  hand,  that  fadeth  in 

the  breast — 
Until,  in  grieving  for  the  worst,  we  learn  what  is  the 

best!" 
Then   breaking   into  tears — "Dear  God,"   she  cried, 

"  and  must  we  see 
All  blissful  things  depart  from  us,  or  ere  we  go  to 

Thee  ? 
We  cannot  guess  thee  in  the  wood,  or  hear  thee  in 

wind  ? 
Our  cedars  must  fall  lound  us,  ere  we  see  the  light 

behind  ? 
A}'  9S)0th,  we  feel  too  strong  in  weal,  to  need  thee  on 

that  road. 
But  woe  being  come,  the  soul  is  dumb  that  crieth  not 

on 'God.'" 

Her  mother  could  not  speak  for  tears  ;  she  ever  mused 
thus, 

"  The  bees  will  find  out  other  Jlowers — but  what  is  left 
for  us ?" 

But  her  young  brother  stayed  his  sobs  and  knelt  be- 
side her  knee, 

— "  Thou  sweetest  sister  in  the  world,  hast  never  a 
word  for  me  ?  " 


ROMANCE     OF      TIIK      GANGES.  225 

IShe  passed  her  luiiul  across  his  face,  she  pressed  it  on 

his  cheek, 
So  teuderl}',  so  tenderly — she  needed  not  to  speak. 

The  wreath  which  lay  on   shrine  that  day,  at  vespers 

bloomed  no  more. 
Tiie  woman  fair  who  placed  it  tliere,  had  died  an  houi 

before. 
Both  perished  mute,  for  lack  of  root,  earth's  nourish 

ment  to  reach. 
0  reader,  breatlie   (the  ballad  saith)  some  sweetness 

out  of  each  I 


A   ROMANCE  OF    THE    GANGES. 

Seven  maidens  'neath  the  midnight 

Stand  near  the  river-sea, 
Whose  water  sweepeth  white  around 

The  shadow  of  the  tree. 
The  moon  and  earth  are  face  to  face, 

And  the  earth  is  slumbering  deep  ; 
The  wave-voice  seems  the  voice  of  dreams 

That  wander  thi'ough  lier  sleep. 

The  river  lioweth  on. 

What  bring  they  'neath  the  midnight, 

Beside  th(!  river-sea  ? 
The}^  bring  the  human  heart  wherein 

No  nightl}'  calm  can  be — 
That  droppeth  never  with  the  wind, 

Nor  drieth  with  the  dew. 
Oh,  calm  it  God  !  thy  calm  is  broad 

To  cover  spirits,  too. 

The  river  floweth  on. 

The  maidens  lean  them  over 

The  waters,  side  b^'  side. 
And  shun  each  other's  deepening  eyes, 

And  gaze  adown  the  tide  ; 
For  each  within  a  little  boat 

A  little  lamp  hath  put. 
And  heaped  for  freight  some  lilj-'s  weight 

Or  scarlet  rose  half  shut. 

The  river  floweth  on. 
P 


220      ROMANCE   OF  THE  GANGES. 

Of  shell  of  cocoa  carven, 
Each  little  boat  is  made. 

Each  carries  a  lamp,  and  carries  a  flower, 
And  carries  a  hope  unsaid  ; 

And  when  the  boat  hath  carried  the  lamp 
Unquenched,  till  out  of  sight, 

The  maiden  is  sure  that  love  will  endure- 
But  love  will  fail  with  light. 

The  river  floweth  on. 

Why  all  the  stars  are  ready 

To  symbolize  the  soul, 
The  stars  untroubled  by  the  wind, 

Unwearied  as  the}'^  roll ; 
And  3'et  the  soul  by  instinct  sad 

Reverts  to  sj-mbols  low — 
To  that  small  flame,  whose  very  name 

Breathed  o'er  it,  shakes  it  so  ! 

The  river  floweth  on. 

Six  boats  are  on  the  river. 

Seven  maidens  on  the  shore, 
"While  still  above  them  stedfastly 

The  stars  shine  evermore. 
Go,  little  boats,  go  soft  and  safe, 

And  guard  the  symbol  spark  ! 
The  boats  aright  go  safe  and  bright 

Across  the  waters  dark. 

The  river  floweth  on. 

The  maiden  Luti  watcheth 

Where  onu'ardl}^  they  float. 
That  look  in  her  dilating  eyes 

Might  seem  to  drive  her  boat  ! 
Her  eyes  still  mark  the  constant  fire, 

And  kindling  unawares 
That  hopeful  while,  she  lets  a  smile 

Creep  silent  through  her  prayers. 

The  river  floweth  on. 

The  smile — ^where  hath  it  wandered  ? 

She  riseth  from  her  knee. 
She  holds  her  dark,  wet  locks  awa}' — 

There  is  no  light  to  see  ! 
She  cries  a  quick  and  bitter  cry — 

"  Nuleeni,  launch  me  thine! 
We  must  have  light  abroad  to-night, 

For  all  the  wreck  of  mine." 

The  liver  floweth  on. 


ROMANCE      OF     THE     GANQEB.  227 

"  I  do  remember  watching 

Beside  tliis  river-bed, 
"When  on  my  cliildish  knee  was  laid 

My  dying  fiither's  head. 
I  turned  mine  own  to  keep  the  tears 

From  falling  on  his  face. 
What  doth  it  prove  when  Death  and  Love 

Choose  out  the  self-same  place  ?  " 

The  river  floweth  on. 

"  They  say  the  dead  are  joyful 

The  death-change  here  receiving. 
Who  say — ah,  me  ! — who  dare  to  say 

Where  joy  comes  to  the  living  ? 
Thy  boat,  Nuleeni  !  look  not  sad — 

Light  up  the  waters  rather  1 
I  weep  no  faithless  lover  where 

I  wept  a  loving  father.'' 

The  river  floweth  on. 

My  heart  foretold  his  falsehood 

Ere  my  little  boat  grew  dim  ; 
And  though  1  closed  mine  eyes  to  dream 

That  one  last  dream  of  him, 
They  shall  not  now  be  wet  to  see 

The  shining  vision  go. 
From  earth's  cold  love  I  look  above 

To  the  holy  house  of  snow:"* 

The  river  floweth  on. 

Corae  thou — thou  never  knewest 

A  grief,  that  thou  shouldst  fear  one ! 
Thou  wearest  still  the  happy  look 

That  shines  beneath  a  dear  one.  * 

Thy  humming-bird  is  in  the  sunf 

Thy  cuckoo  in  the  grove. 
And  all  the  three  broad  worlds,  for  thee 

Are  full  of  wandering  love."  . 

The  river  floweth  on. 


*  The  Hindoo  heaven  is  localized  on  the  summit  of  Mount  Meru, 
one  of  the  mountains  of  Himalaya  or  Himmaleb,  which  signifies, 
I  believe,  in  Sanscrit,  the  abode  of  snow,  winter,  or  coldness. 

f  Himadeva,  the  Indian  god  of  love,  is  imagined  to  wander 
through  the  three  worlds,  accompanied  by  th(!  humming-bird. 
cuckoo,  and  gentle  breezes. 


828  KOMANCE     OF     THE     GANGES. 

"Why,  maiden,  dost  thou  loiter? 

What  secret  wouldst  thou  cover  ? 
That  peepul  cannot  hide  thy  hoat, 

And  I  can  guess  thy  lover. 
I  heard  thee  sob  his  name  in  sleep  .  .  . 

It  was  a  name  I  knew. 
Come,  little  maid,  be  not  afraid, 
But  let  us  prove  him  true." 

The  river  floweth  on. 

The  little  maiden  cometh. 

She  cometh  shy  and  slow. 
I  ween  she  seeth  through  her  lids, 

They  drop  adown  so  low. 
Her  tresses  meet  her  small,  bare  feet — 

She  stands  and  speaketh  nought. 
Yet  blusheth  red,  as  if  she  said 

The  name  slie  only  tliought. 

The  river  floweth  on. 

She  knelt  beside  the  water. 
She  lighted  up  the  flame, 
And  o'er  lier  youthful  forehead's  calm 
The  titful  radiance  came:  — 
"  Go,  little  boat,  go,  soft  and  safe. 
And  guard  the  symbol  spark  !" 
Soft,  safe,  doth  float  the  little  boat 
Across  the  waters  dark. 

The  river  floweth  on. 

Glad  tears  her  ej'es  have  blinded, 

The  light  they  cannot  reach  ; 
She  turneth  with  that  sudden  smile 
She  learnt  before  her  speech — 
•'I  do  not  hear  his  voice  !  the  tears 
Have  dimmed  m}'  light  away  ! 
But  the  symbol  light  will  last  to-night. 
The  love  will  last  for  aye." 

The  river  floweth  on. 

Then  Luti  spake  behind  her, 
Out-spake  she  bitterly. 
"  By  the  symbol-light  that  lasts  to-night, 
Wilt  vow  a  vow  to  me  ? — " 
Nuleeui  gazeth  up  her  face. 
Soft  answer  maketh  she. 


ROMANCE     OF     THE     O  A  NOES.  22^- 

•'  By  lovos  that  last  when  lights  are  past, 
I  vow  that  vow  to  thee !" 

The  river  flovveth  on 
An  earthly  look  had  Tjuti 

Though  her  voice  was  deep  as  prayer. 
*'  The  rice  is  gathered  IVom  the  plains 
To  east  upon  thine  hair,* 
But  when  he  comes,  his  marriage-band 

Around  tli>'  neck  to  throw, 
Thy  bride-smile  raise  to  meet  his  gazo, 
And  whisper, —  There,  is  one  betrays 
While  Lull  suffers  icoe.'" 

The  river  floweth  on. 

"And  when  in  seasons  after, 

Th}'  little  bright-faced  son 
Shall  lean  against  thy  knee  and  ask 

AVhat  deeds  his  sire  hath  done. 
Press  deeper  down  thy  mother-smile 

His  glossy  curls  among — 
View  deep  his  pretty  childish  eyes. 
And  whisper, —  There  is  none  denies 

While  Luti  sjxaks  of  wrong. ''^ 

The  river  floweth  on. 

Nuleeni  looked  in  wonder, 
Yet  softly  answered  she, 
B}'  loves  that  last  when  lights  are  passed, 

I  A'owed  that  vow  to  thee. 
But  wh}'  glads  it  thee  that  a  bright  day  be 

By  a  word  of  woe  defiled  ? 
That  a  word  of  wrong  take  the  cradle-song 
From  the  ear  of  a  sinless  child  ?" — 
"  Why  ?"  Luti  said,  and  her  laugh  was  dread, 

And  her  eyes  dilated  wild — 
"  That  the  fair  new  love  may  her  bridegroom  prove, 
And  the  father  shame  the  child." 

The  river  floweth  on. 

'  Thou  flowest  still,  0  river, 

Thou  flowest  neath  the  moon  ! 
Thy  lily  hath  not  changed  a  leaf,f 
Thy  charmed  lute  a  tunel 

*  The  casting  of  rice  upon  the  head,  and  the  fixing  of  the  band 
(r  tali  about  the  neck,  are  parts  of  the  Hindoo  marriage  cer- 
imonial. 

f  The  Ganges  is  represented  as  a  wliite  woman,  witli  a  water 
lily  in  her  right  hand,  and  in   her  left  a  lute. 
20 


330         RHYME     OF     THE    DUCHESS     MAY. 

He  mixed  his  voice  with  thine — and  his 

AVas  all  I  heard  around  ; 
But  now,  beside  his  cliosen  bride. 

I  hear  the  river's  sound." 

The  river  floweth  on. 

"  I  gaze  upon  her  beauty 

Through  the  tresses  that  enwreathe  it. 
The  light  above  th}'  wave,  is  hers —  • 

My  rest,  alone  beneath  it. 
Oh,  give  me  back  the  dying  look 

My  father  gave  thy  water ! 
Give"  back  ! — and  let  a  little  love 

O'erwatch  his  weary  daughter  !" 

The  river  floweth  on 

"  Give  back  !"  she  liath  departed — 

The  word  is  wandering  with  her; 
And  tlie  stricken  maidens  hear  afar 

The  step  and  cry  together. 
Frail  sj^mbols  ?     None  are  frail  enow 

For  mortal  joys  to  borrow ! — 
While  brijrht  doth  float  Nuleeni's  boat, 

She  weepeth,  dark  with  sorrow. 

The  river  floweth  on. 


RaYME    OF  THE  DUCHESS  MAY. 

To  the  belfry,  one  by  one,  went  the  ringers  from  the 
sun, 

Toll  slowly. 
And  the  oldest  ringer  said,  "  Ours  is  music  for  the 
Dead, 

When  the  rebecks  are  all  done." 

Six  abeles  i'  the  church^-ard  grow  on  the  northside  in 
a  row, 

Toll  nlowly. 
And  the  shadows  of  their  tops  rock  across  the  little 
slopes 

Of  the  grassy  graves  below. 

On  the  south  side  and  tho  west,  a  small  river  runs  in 
haste, 

Toll  slowly. 


RHYME      OF      THE      DUCHESS     MAY.  231 

And  between  the  river  flowing  and  the  fair  green  treses 
a-growing 

Do  the  dead  lie  at  their  rest. 

On  the  east  I  sate  that  day,  up  against  a  willow  grey. 

Toll  slowly. 
Through  the  rain  of  willow-branches,  I  could  see  the 
low  hill  ranges, 

And  the  river  on  its  way 

There    I  sate  beneath  the   tree,  and  the  bell  tolled 
solemnly, 

Toll  slowly. 
While  the  trees'  and  river's  voices  flowed  between  the 
solemn  noises — 

Yet  death  seemed  more  loud  to  me. 

There,  I  read  this  ancient  rh3-me,  while  the  bell  did  all 
the  time 

Toll  slowly. 
And  the  solemn  knell  fell  in  with  the  tale  of  life  and 
sin. 

Like  a  rhythmic  fate  sublime, 


THE  RHYMr.. 

Broad   the  forests  stood  (1  read)  on  the  hills  of  Lin- 
teged — 

Toll  slowly 
And  three  hundred  years  had  stood  mute  adown  each 
hoary  wood. 

Like  a  full  heart  having  prayed. 

And  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  birds  sang 
west. 

Toll  slowly. 
And  but  little  thought  was  theirs  of  the  silent  antique 
years, 

In  the  building  of  their  nest. 

Down  the  sun  dropt  large  and  red,  on  the  towers  of 
Linteged — 

Toll  slowly. 
Lance  and  spear  upon  the  height,  bristling  strange  in 
fiery  light, 

"While  the  castle  stood  in  shade. 


232  RHYME      OF     THE     DUCUESS      MAY. 

There,  the  castle  stood  up  black,  with  the  red  sun  at 
its  back — 

Toll  slowly. 
Like  a  sullen  smouldering  pyre,  with  a  top  that  flickers 
fire 

When  the  wind  is  on  its  track. 

And  five  hundred  archers  tall  did  besiege  the  castle 
wall, 

Toll  slowly. 
And  the  castle,  seethed  in  blood,  fourteen  days  and 
nights  had  stood, 

And  to-night  was  near  its  fall. 

Yet  thereunto,  blind  to  doom,  three  months  since,  a 
bride  did  come — 

Toll  slowly. 
One  who  proudly  trod  the  floors,  and  softly  whispered 
in  the  doors, 

"  May  good  angels  bless  our  home." 

Oh,  a  bride  of  queenly  eyes,  with  a  front  of  constan- 
cies ! 

Toll  slowly. 
Oh,  a  bride  of  cordial  mouth — where  the  untired  smile 
of  youth 

Did  light  outward  its  own  sighs. 

'Twas  a  Duke's  fair  orphan-girl,  and  her  uncle's  ward, 
the  Earl ; 

Toll  slowly. 
Who  betrothed  her  twelve  years  old,  for  the  sake  of 
dowry  gold. 

To  his  son  Lord  Leigh,  the  churl. 

But  what  time  she  had  made  good  all  her  years  of 
womanhood, 

Toll  slowly. 
Unto  both  those  lords  of  Leigh,  spake  she  out  right 
sovranly, 

"  My  will  runneth  as  my  blood. 

"  And  while  this  same  blood  makes  red  this  same  right 
hand's  veins,"  she  said — 

Toll  slowly. 
"  'Tis  my  will  as  lady  free,  not  to  wed  a  lord  of  Leigh, 
But  Sir  Guy  of  Linteged." 


EHYME     OF     TUE     DUCHESS     iMAY.  'llVd 

The  old  Earl  he  smiled  smooth,  then  he  sighed  for  wil 
ful  youth — 

Toll  8-loicIy. 
*'  Good,  my  niece,  that  hand  withal  looketh  somewhat 
soft  and  small 

For  so  large  a  will,  in  sooth." 

She,  too,  smiled  by  that  same  sign — but  her  smile  was 
cold  and  line — 

Toll  slowly. 
"  Little  hand  clasps  muckle  gold,  or  it  were  not  worth 
the  hold 

Of  thy  son,  good  uncle  mine  !" 

Then  the  young   lord  jerked  his  breath,  and   sware 
thickly  in  his  teeth, 

I'oll  slowly. 
"He  would  wed  his  own  betrothed,  and  she  loved  him 
aud  she  loathed. 

Let  the  life  come  or  the  death." 

Up  she  rose  with  scornful  eyes,  as  her  father's  child 
might  rise — 

Toll  slowly. 
"  Thy  hound's    blood,  my  lord  of  Leigh,  stains  thy 
knightly  heel,"  quoth  she, 

"  And  he  moans  not  where  he  lies. 

"  But  a  woman's  will  dies  hard,  in  the  hall  or  on  the 
sward !" — 

Toll  slowly. 
"By  that  grave,  my  lords,  which  made  me  orphaned 
girl  and  dowered  lady, 

I  deny  you  wife  and  ward." 

Unto  each  she  bowed  her  head,  and  swept  past  with 
lofty  tread. 

Toll  slowly. 
Ere  the  midnight-bell  had  ceased,  in  the  chapel  had  the 
priest 

Blessed  her,  bride  of  Linteged. 

Fast  and  fiiin  the  bridal  train  along  the  night-storm 
rode  amain. 

Toll  slowly. 
Hard  the  steeds  of  lord  and  serf  struck  their  hoofs  our, 
on  the  turf, 

In  the  pauses  of  the  rain 
20* 


234  RHYME      OF      THE      DUCHESS      MAY, 

Fast  and  fain  tlie  kinsmen's  tiain  along  the  storm  pur 
sued  amain — 

Toll  slowly. 
Steed  on   steed-track,  dashing  off— thickening,  doub- 
ling, hoof  on  hoof. 

In  the  pauses  of  the  rain. 

And  the   bridegroom  led  the  flight  on  his  red-roan 
steed  of  might, 

Toll  slowly. 
And  the  bride  lay  on  his  arm,  still,  as  if  she  feared  no 
harm. 

Smiling  out  into  the  night. 

"Dost  thou  fear?"  he  said  at  last.     "Naj^,"  she  an- 
swered him  in  haste — 

Toll  slowly. 
"JSTot  such  death  as  we  could  find— only  life  with  one 
behind — 

Ride  on  fast  as  fear — ride  fast !" 

Up  the  mountain  wheeled  the  steed — girth  to  ground, 
and  fetlocks  spread — 

Toll  slowly. 
Headlong  bounds,  and  rocking  flanks — down  he  stag- 
gered, down  the  banks. 

To  the  towers  of  Linteged. 

High  and  low  the  serfs  looked  out,  red  the  flambeaus 
tossed  about — 

Toll  slowly. 
In  the  courtj-ard  rose  the  cry — "Live  the  Duchess  and 
Sir  Guy!" 

But  she  never  heard  them  sliout. 

On  the  steed  she  dropt  her  cheek,  kissed  his  mane  and 
kissed  his  neck — 

Toll  slowly. 
"  I  had   happier  die  by  thee,  than  lived  on  a  Lady 
Leigh," 

Were  the  first  words  she  did  speak. 

But  a  three  months'  joyaunce  Jay  'twixt  that  moment 
and  to-day, 

Toll  slowly. 
When  five  hundred  archers  tall  stand  beside  the  castle 
wall, 

To  recapture  Duchess  May. 


RHYME     OF      THE     DUCHESS     MAY.  235 

A-iid  the  castle  standeth  black,  with  the  red  sun  at  ita 
back — 

Toll  doicly. 
And    a   fortnight's   siege    is   done — and,    except    the 
duchess,  none 

Can  misdoubt  the  coming  wrack. 

Then  the  captain,  j'oung  Lord  Leigh,  with  his  eyes  so 
grey  of  blee. 

Toll  slowly. 
And   thin  lips  that   scarcely  sheath    the    cold    white 
gnashing  teeth, 

Gnashed  in  smiling,  absently. 

Cried   aloud, ."  So  goes  the  day,  bridegroom  fair  of 
Duchess  May  1" — • 

Toll  sloidy. 
"  Look  thy  last  upon  that  sun !  if  thou  seest  to-morrow's 
one, 

'Twill  be  through  a  foot  of  clay. 

"Ha,  fair  bride!  dost  hear  no  sound,  save  that  moan- 
ing of  the  hound  ?" — 

Toll  slowly. 
"  Thou   and  I    have    parted   troth, — 3^et    I    keep   mj' 
vengeance-oath, 

And  the  other  may  come  round. 

"  Ha  !  thy  will  is  brave  to  dare,  and  th^^  new  love  past 
compare" — 

Toll  sloivly. 
"  Yet  thine  old   love's  falchion  brave  is  as  strong  a 
thing  to  have, 

As  the  will  of  lady  fair. 

Peck  on  blindl}^,  netted  dove  ! — If  a  wife's  name  thee 
behove," 

Toll  sloivly. 
Thou  shalt  wear  the  same  to-morrow,  ere  the  grave  has 
hid  the  sorrow 

Of  thy  last  ill-mated  love. 

"  O'er  his  fixed  and  silent  mouth,  thou  and  I  Avill  call 
back  troth." 

Toll  sloivly. 
"  He  shall  altar  be  and  priest — and  he  will  not  cry  at 
least 

'  I  forbid  you — I  am  loth  !' 


230         RHYME      OF     THE     DUCHESS     MAY. 

"  I  will  wring  thy  fingers  pale  in  the  gauntlet  of  m;^' 
mail." 

Toll  slowly. 
'Little  hand  and  muckle  gold  '  close  shall  lie  withjn 
my  hold, 

As  the  sword  did,  to  prevail." 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  birds  sang 
west, 

Toll  slowly. 
Oh,  and  laughed  the  Duchess  Ma}-,  and  her  soul  did 
put  away 

All  his  boasting  for  a  jest. 

In  her  chamber  did  she  sit,  laughing  low  to  think  of 
it— 

Toll  slowly. 
"  Tower  is  strong  and  will  is  free — thou  canst  boast, 
my  Lord  of  Leigh, 

But  thou  boastest  little  wit." 

In   her  tire-glass  gazed   she,  and   she  blushed,  right 
womanly. 

Toll  slowly. 
She  blushed  half  from  her  disdain — half,  her  beauty 
was  so  plain, 

— "  Oath  for  oath,  my  Lord  of  Leigh  !" 

Straight  she  called  her  maidens  in — "  Since  ye  gave 
me  blame  herein." 

Toll  slowly. 
"  That  a  bridal  such  as  mine  should  lack  gauds  to 
make  it  fine. 

Come  and  shrive  me  from  that  sin. 

"  It  is  three  months  gone  to-day,  since  I  gave  mine 
hand  away." 

Toll  slowly. 
"  Bring  the  gold  and  bring  the  gem,  we  will  keep  bride- 
state  in  them, 

While  we  keep  the  foe  at  bay, 

"On  your  arms  I  loose  mine  hair! — comb  it  smooth 
and  crown  it  fair." 

Toll  slowly. 
"  I  would  look  in  purple  pall  from  the  laitice  down  the 
wall. 

And  throw  scorn  to  one  that's  there  1" 


RHYME      OF     THE     DUCHESS      MAY.  23"; 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  birds  sang 
west. 

Toll  slowly. 
On  the  tower  the  castle's  lord  leant  in  silence  on  his 
sword , 

With  an  anguish  in  his  breast. 

With  a  spirit-laden   weiglit,   did   he    lean  down    ])as- 
sionate, 

Toll  slowly. 
They  have  almost  sapped  the   wall — the}-  will  enter 
therewithal, 

With  no  knocking  at  the  gate. 

Then  the  sword  he  leant  upon,  shivered,  snapped  upon 
the  stone — 

Toll  slowly. 
"Sword,"  he  thought,  Avith  inward  laugh,  "ill   thou 
servest  for  a  staff 

\Vheu  thy  nobler  use  is  done  I 

"Sword,  thy  nobler  use  is  done! — tower  is  lost,  and 
shame  begun  I" — 

Toll  slowly. 
"  If  we  met  them  in  the  breach,  hilt  to  hilt  or  speech 
to  speech. 

We  should  die  there,  each  for  one. 

"Tf  we  met  them  at  the  wall,  we  should  sino-ly   vainly 
fall  "—  o  ^ .  J 

Toll  slowly. 
"  But  if  /die  here  alone — then  I  die,  who  am  but  one, 
And  die  nobly  for  them  all. 

"  Five  true  friends  lie  for  my  sake,  in    the  moat  and 
in  the  brake  " — 

Toll  slowly. 
"  Thirteen  warriors  lie  at  rest,  with  a  black   wound  in 
the  breast. 

And  not  one  of  these  will  wake. 

"  So  no  more  of  this  shall  be  ! — heart-blood  weighs  too 
heavily  " — 

Toll  slowly 
"  And  I  could  not  sleep  in  grave,  with  the  faithful  and 
the  brave 

Heaped  around  and  over  me. 


238         RHYME     OF     THE     DUCHESS      MAY 

"  Since  _yoiii)g  Clare  a  mother  hath,  and  young  Ralph 
a  plighted  faith  " — 

Toll  slowly. 
"  Since  my  pale  young  sister's  cheeks  blush  like  rose 
when  Ronald  speaks, 

Albeit  never  a  word  she  saitli — 

"  These  shall  never  die  for  me — life-blood  falls  too 
heavily  :  " 

Toll  slowly. 
"  And  if  /  die  here  apart — o'er  my  dead  and   silent 
heart 

They  shall  pass  out  safe  and  free. 

*'  When  the  foe  hath  heard  it  said — '  Death  holds  Gay 
of  Linteged,' " 

Toll  slowly. 
"That  new  corse  new  peace  shall  bring,  and  a  blessed 
blessed  thing 

Shall  the  stone  be  at  its  head. 

"  Then  my  friends   shall  pass  out  free,  and  shall  bear 
m}'^  memory  " — 

Toll  slowly. 
"  Then  my  foes   shall  sleek  their  pride,  soothing  fair 
my  widowed  bride 

Whose  sole  sin  was  love  of  me, 

*'  With  their  words  all  smooth  and  sweet,  they   will 
front  her,  and  entreat," 

Toll  slowly. 
"  And  their  purple  pall  will  spread   underneath   her 
fainting  head 

While  her  tears  drop  over  it. 

"  She  will  weep  her  woman's  tears,  she  will  j^ray  hot 
woman's  prayer  " — 

Toll  sloivly. 
"  But  her  heart   is  j^oung  in   pain,  and  her  hopes   will 
spring  again 

By  the  suntime  of  her  ^-ears. 

"  Ah,  sweet  May  !  ah,  sweetest  grief  l^once  I  A'owed 
thee  m3^  belief," 

Toll  sloivly. 
"  That  thy  name  expressed   thy  sweetness — May  of 
poets,  in  completeness ! 

Now  my  May-day  seeraeth  brief" 


RHYME      OF      THE     DUCHESS      MAY.  239 

All  these  silent  thoughts  did  swim  o'er  his  eyes 
grown  strange  and  dim — 

Toll  slowly. 
Till  his  true  men  in  the  place,  wished  they  stood  there 
face  to  face 

With  the  foe  instead  of  him, 

"  One  last  oath,  my  friends  that  were  faithful  hearts  to 
do  and  dare  1  " — 

Toll  slowly. 
"  Tower  must  fall,  and  bride  be  lost ! — swear  me  ser- 
vice worth  the  cost !  " 

— Bold  they  stood  around  to  swear. 

"  Each  man  clasp  my  baud  and  swear,  by  the  deed;;W€- 
failed  in  there," 

Toll  sloivly. 
"  Not  for  vengeance,  not  for  right,  will  ye  strike  one 
blow  to-nioht !  " 

— Pale  the}"  stood  around  to  sw-ear, 

"  One   last  boon,  young  Ralph    and    Clare  !  faithful 
hearts  to  do  and  dare  !  " — 
Toll  dotvly. 
"Bring  that  steed  up  from  his  stall,  which  she  kissed 
before  you  all  ! 

Guide  him  up  the  tnrret-stair. 

"  Ye  shall  liarness   him   aright,  and  lead  upward  to 
this  height." 

Toll  i<loicly. 
"  Once  in   love  and  twice  in  wai-,  hath  he   borne   me 
strong  and  fair. 

He  shall  bear  me  far  to-night." 

Then  his  men  looked  to  and  fro,  when  they  heard  him 
speaking  so. 

Toll  sloivly. 
— "  'Las  !  the  noble  heart,"  they  thought — "  he  in  sooth 
is  grief  distraught. 

Would,  we  stood  here  with  the  foe  1  " 

But  a  fire  flashed  from  his  eye,  'twixt  their  thought 
and  their  reply — 

Toll  sloivly. 
"  Rave  )'e  so  much  time  to  waste  ?   We  who  ride  here 
must  ride  fast, 

As  we  wish  our  foes  to  fly." 


240  EHYME     OF     THE     DUCHESS     MAT 

T&ey  have  fetched  the  steed  with  care,  in  the  harnesn 
he  did  wear, 

Toll  slowly. 
Past  the  court,  and  through  the  doors,  across  the  rushes 
of  the  floors, 

But  they  goad  him  up  the  stair. 

Then  from  out  her  bower  chambere,  did  the  Duchess 
May  repair. 

Toll  slowly. 
"Tell  me  now  what  is  your  need,"  said  the  lady,  "  of 
this  steed, 

That  3^e  goad  him  up  the  stair." 

Calm  she  stood  ;  unbodkined  through,  fell  her  dark 
hair  to  her  shoe — 

Toll  slowly. 
And  the  smile  upon  her  face,  ere  she  left  the  tiring 
glass, 

Had  not  time  enough  to  go. 

"  Get  thee  back,  sweet  Duchess  May  !  hope  is  gone  like 
yesterday  " — 

Toll  slowly. 
"  One  half  hour  completes  the  breach  ;  and  thy  lord 
grows  wild  of  speech  1 

Get  thee  in,  sweet  lady,  and  pray. 

'■  In  the  east  tower,  high'st  of  all,  loud  he   cries  for 
steed  from  stall." 

Toll  slowly. 
"He  would  ride  as  far,"  quoth  he,  "as  for  love    and 
victor^'. 

Though  he  rides  the  castle  wall." 

"  And  we  fetched  the  steed  from  stall,  up  where  never 
a  hoof  did  fall."— 

Toll  slmoly. 
"  Wifely  prayer  meets  deathly  need  !  may  the  sweet 
Heavens  hear  thee  plead 

If  he  rides  the  castle-wall." 

Low  she  dropt  her  head,  and  lower,  till  her  hair  coiled 
on  the  floor — 

Toll  slowly. 
And  tear  after  tear  you  heard  fall  distinct  as  any  word 
Which  you  might  be  listening  for. 


^SS= "^v^.^^- 


KHYME  OF  THE  DUCHESS  MAY. 


AHYME     OF     THE     DUCHESS      MAY.         241 

"  Get  thee  in,  thou  soft  ladj-e  I — here,  is  never  a  place 
for  thee !" — 

Toll  slowly. 
"  Braid  thine  hair  and  clasp  thy  gown,  that  th}^  beauty 
in  its  moan 

May  find  grace  with  Leigh  of  Leigh." 

She  stood  up  in  bitter  case,  with  a  pale  yet  steady 
face, 

Toll  slowly. 
Like  a  statue  thunderstruck,  which,  though  quivering, 
seems  to  look 

Right  against  the  thunder-place. 

And  her  foot  trod  in,  with  pride,  her  own  tears  i'  the 
stone  beside. — 

Toll  slowly. 
"  Go  to,  faithful  friends,  go  to  ! — judge  no  more  what 
ladies  do — 

No,  nor  how  their  lords  may  ride  !" 

Then  the  good  steed's  rein  she  took,  and  his  neck  did 
kiss  and  stroke : 

Toll  slowly. 
Soft  he  neighed  to   answer  her,  and  then  followed  up 
the  stair, 

For  the  love  of  her  sweet  look. 

Oh,  and  steeply,  steeply  wound   up  the  narrow  stair 
around ! 

Toll  slowly. 
Oh,  and  closely,  closely  speeding,  step  by  step  beside 
her  treading. 

Did  he  follow,  meek  as  hound. 

On  the  east  tower,  high'st  of  all — there,  where  never  a 
hoof  did  fall — 

Toll  slowly. 
Out  they  swept  a  vision  steady — noble  steed  and  lovely 
lady, 

Calm  as  if  in  bower  or  stall. 

Down  she  knelt  at  her  lord's  knee,  and  she  looked  up 
silently — 

Toll  slowly. 
And   he  kissed  her  twice   and   thrice,  for  that   look 
within  her  eyes 

Which  he  could  not  bear  to  see. 
21  Q 


242  RHYME     OF      THE     DUCHESS      MAT 

Quoth  he,  "  Get  thee  from  this  strife — and  the  sweet 
saints  bless  th}'^  life  !" — 

Toll  slowly. 
"  In  this  hour,  I  stand  in  need  of  my  noble  red-roan 
steed, 

But  no  more  of  my  noble  wife.-' 

Quoth  she,  "  Meekly  have  I  done  all  thy  biddings  under 
sun ;" 

Toll  slowly. 
"  But  by  all  my  womanhood,  which  is  proved,  so  true 
and  good, 

I  will  never  do  this  one. 

"Now   by  womanhood's   degree,    and   by  wifehood's 
verity," 

Toll  slowly. 
"  In  this  hour  if  thou  hast  need  of  thy  noble  red-roan 
steed. 

Thou  hast  also  need  of  me. 

"  By  this  golden  ring  ye  see  on  this  lifted  hand  pardie,'- 

Toll  slowly. 
"  If,  this  hour,  on  castle  wall,  can  be  room  for  staed 
from  stall, 

Shall  be  also  room  for  me. 

**  So  the  sweet  saints  with  me  be,"  (did  she   utter 
solemnly.) 

Toll  slowly. 
"  If  a  man,  this  eventide,  on  this  castle  wall  will  ride, 
He  shall  ride  the  same  with  me. 

Oh,  he  sprang  up  in  the  selle,  and   he  laughed  out 
bitter-well, 

Toll  slowly. 
"  Wouldst  thou  ride  among  the  leaves,  as  we  used  on 
other  eves. 

To  hear  chime  a  vesper-bell  ?" 

She  clang  closer  to  his  knee—"  Ay,  beneath  the  cy- 
press-tree ! — 

Toll  slowly. 
"  Mock  me  not,  for  otherwhere  than  along  the  green 
wood  fair, 

Have  I  ridden  fast  with  thee. 


RHYME     OF     THE     DUCHESS     MAY.         243 

"Fast  I  rode  with  new-made  vows,  from  my  angry 
kinsman's  house." 

Toll  slowly. 
"  What,  and  would  you  men  should  reck  that  I  dared 
more  for  love's  sake 

As  bride  than  as  a  spouse  ? 

"  What,  and  would  you  it  should  fall,  as  a  proverb, 
before  all," 

Toll  slowly. 
"  That  a  bride  may  keep  your  side  while  through  castle- 
gate  you  ride, 

Yet  eschew  the  castle  wall  ?" 

Ho!  the  breach  j^awns  into  ruin,  and  roars  up  against 
her  suing, 

Toll  slowly. 
With  the  inarticulate  din,  and  the  dreadful  falling  in-^ 
Shrieks  of  doing  and  undoing  1 

Twice  he  wrung  her  hands  in  twain,  but  the   small 
hands  closed  again. 

Toll  slowly. 
Back  he  reined  the  steed — back,  back !  but  she  trailed 
along  his  track 

With  a  frantic  clasp  and  strain. 

Evermore  the  foeman  pour  through  the  crash  of  win- 
dow and  door — 

Toll  slowly. 
And  the  shouts  of  Leigh  and  Leigh,  and  the  shrieks 
of  "kill!"  and  "flee!" 

Strike  up  clear  amid  the  roar. 

Thrice  he  wrung  her  hands  in  twain — but  they  closed 
and  clung  again — 

Toll  slowly. 
Wild    she  clung,   as  one,  withstood,  clasps  a  Christ 
upon  the  rood. 

In  a  spasm  of  deathly  pain. 

She  clung  wild  and  she  clung  mute,  with  her  shudder- 
ing lips  half-shut. 

Toll  slowly. 
Her  head   fallen   as   half  in   swound — hair  and  knee 
swept  on  the  ground. 

She  clung  wild  to  stirrup  and  foot. 


244         RHYME     OF     THE     DUCHESS     MAT. 

Back  he  reined  his  steed  back-thrown  on  the  slippery 
coping  stone. 

Toll  slowly. 
Back  the  iron  hoofs  did  grind  on  the  battlement  be- 
hind 

Whence  a  hundred  feet  went  down. 

And  his  heel  did  press  and  goad  on  the  quivering 
flank  bestrode — 

Toll  slowly. 
"  Friends  and  brothers,  save  my  wife  ! — Pardon,  sweet, 
in  change  for  life — 

But  I  ride  alone  to  God." 

Straight  as  if  the  Holy  name  had  upbreathed  her  like 
a  flame, 

Toll  sloioly. 
She  upsprang,  she  rose  upright — in  his  selle  she  sate 
in  sight. 

By  her  love  she  overcame. 

And  her  head  was  on  his  breast,  where  she  smiled  as 
one  at  rest — 

Toll  slowly. 
"  Ring,"  she  cried,  "  0  vesper-bell,  in  the  beechwood's 
old  chapel le  I 

But  the  passing  bell  rings  best." 

They  have  caught  out  at  the  rein,  -which  Sir  Guy  threw 
loose — in  vain — 

Toll  slowly. 
For  the  horse  in  stark  despair,  with  his  front  hoofs 
poised  in  air, 

On  the  last  verge  rears  amain. 

Now  he  hangs,  he  rocks  between,  and   his   nostrils 
curdle  in ! — 

Toll  slowly. 
Now  he  shivers  head  and  hoof — and  the  flakes  of  foam 
fall  off", 

And  his  face  grows  fierce  and  thin  ! 

And  a  look  of  human  woe  from  his  staring  e3^es  did  go, 

Toll  slowly. 
And  a  sharp  cr^'  uttered  he,  in  a  foretold  agony 
Of  the  headlong  death  below — 


RHYME     OF      THE     DUCHESS     MAY.         245 

And  "  Ring,  ring,  thou  passing-bell,"  still  she  cried, 
"  i'  the  old  chapelle  !"— 

Toll  slowly. 
Then   back-toppling,   crashing   back — a  dead  weight 
flung  out  to  wrack, 

Horse  and  riders  overfell. 


Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  birds  sang 
west, 

Toll  slowly. 
And  I  read  this  ancient  Rhyme,  in  the  church3ard, 
while  the  chime 

Slowly  tolled  for  one  at  rest. 

The  abeles  moved  in  the  sun,  and  the  river  smooth  did 
run, 

Toll  slowly. 
And  the  ancient  Rh^me  rang  strange,  with  its  passion 
and  its  change, 

Here,  where  all  done  laj'^  undone. 

And  beneath  a  willow  tree,  I  a  little  grave  did  see. 

Toll  slowly. 
Where  was  graved — Here  undefiled,  Lieth  Maud,  a 
three-year  child, 

Eighteen  hundred,  forty-three. 

Then,  0  spirits,  did  I  say,  ye  who  rode  so  fast  that 
day— 

Toll  slowly. 
Did  star-wheels  and  angel  wings,  with  their  holy  win- 
nowings. 

Keep  beside  you  all  the  way  ? 

Though  in  passion  ye  would  dash,  with  a  blind  and 
heavy  crash. 

Toll  slowly. 
Up  against  the  thick-bossed  shield  of  God's  judgment 
in  the  field — 

Though  your  heart  and  brain  were  rash — 

Now,  your  will  is  all  unwilled — now,  3"our  pulses  are 
ail  stilled ! 

Toll  slowly. 
Now,  ye  lie  as  meek  and  mild  (whereso  laid)  as  ^laud 
the  child, 

AVhose  small  grave  was  lately'  filled. 
21* 


246  THE     KOMANCE     OF 

Beating  heart  and  turning  brow,  ye  are  very  patient 
now, 

Toll  slowly. 
And  the  children  might  be  bold  to  pluck  the  king-cups 
from  your  mould 

Ere  a  month  had  let  them  grow. 

And  3^ou  let  the  goldfinch  sing  in  the  alder  near  in 
spring, 

Toll  slowly. 
Let  her  build  her  nest  and  sit  all  the  three  weeks  out 
on  it, 

Murmuring  not  at  anything. 

[n  your  patience  ye  are  strong;  cold  and  heat  ye  take 
not  wrong. 

Toll  slowly. 
When  the  trumpet  of  the  angel  blows  eternity's  evau- 
gel, 

Time  will  seem  to  you  not  lonsr. 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  birds  sang 
west, 

Toll  slowly. 
And  I  said  in  underbreath — All  our  life  is  mixed  with 
death, 

And  who  knoweih  which  is  best  ? 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  birds  sang 
west. 

Toll  slowly. 
And  I  smiled  to  think  God's  greatness  flowed  around 
our  incompleteness — 

Round  our  restlessness.  His  rest. 


THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE    SWAN'S   NEST 

So  the  dreams  depart, 
So  the  fading  phantoms  flee, 
And  the  sharp  reality 
Now  must  act  its  part. 

Westwood's  Beads  from  a  Rosary. 

Little  Ellte  sits  alone 
'Mid  the  beeches  of  the  meadow, 
By  a  stream-side  on  the  grass, 


TUE     SWAN'b     NEST.  247 

^nd  the  trees  are  showering  down 
Doubles  of  tlieir  leaves  in  shadow, 
On  her  shining  hair  and  face. 

She  has  thrown  her  bonnet  by, 
And  her  feet  she  has  been  dipping 

In  the  shallow  water's  flow. 

Now  she  holds  them  nakedly 
In  her  hands,  all  sleek  and  dripping, 

While  she  rocketh  to  and  fro. 

Little  Ellie  sits  alone, 
And  the  sinile  she  softly  uses, 

Fills  the  silence  like  a  speech. 

While  she  thinks  what  shall  be  done— 
And  the  sweetest  pleasure  chooses 

For  her  future  within  reach. 

Little  Ellie  in  her  smile 
Chooses  ..."  I  will  have  a  lover. 

Riding  on  a  steed  of  steeds  ! 

He  shall  love  nie  without  guile. 
And  to  him  I  will  discover 

The  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds. 

"  And  the  steed  shall  be  red-roan. 
And  the  lover  shall  be  noble, 

With  an  eye  that  takes  the  breath. 

And  the  lute  he  plays  upon, 
Shall  strike  ladies  into  trouble, 

As  his  sword  strikes  men  to  death. 

"  And  the  steed  it  shall  be  shod 
All  in  silver,  housed  in  azure, 

And  the  mane  shall  swim  the  wind  ; 

And  the  hoofs  along  the  sod 
Shall  flash  onward  and  keep  measure, 

Till  the  shepherds  look  behind. 

"  But  my  lover  will  not  prize 
All  the  glory  that  he  rides  in. 

When  he  gazes  in  my  face. 

He  will  say,  '  O  Love,  thine  eyes 
Build  the  shrine  my  soul  abides  in, 

And  I  kneel  here  for  thy  grace." 

"  Then,  ay,  then — he  shall  kneel  low. 
With  the  red-roan  steed  anear  him 
Which  shall  seem  to  understand — 


248  THE    swan's    nest. 

Till  I  answer  '  Rise  and  go  ! 
For  the  world  must  love  and  fear  hiin 
Whom  I  gift  with  heart  and  hand  ' 

"  Then  he  will  arise  so  pale, 
I  shall  feel  my  own  lips  tremble 

With  a  yes  I  must  not  say, 

Nathless  maiden-brave,  '  Farewell,' 
1  will  utter,  and  dissemble — 

'Light  to-morrow  with  to-day.' 

"  Then  he'll  ride  among  the  hills 
To  the  wide  world  past  the  river. 

There  to  put  away  all  wrong; 

To  make  straight  distorted  wills, 
And  to  empt}^  the  broad  quiver 

Which  the  wicked  bear  along 

"  Three  times  shall  a  3'oung  foot-page 
Swim  the  stream  and  climb  tlie  mountain 

And  kneel  down  beside  my  feet — 

'  Lo,  my  master  sends  this  gage. 
Lady,  for  thy  pity's  counting  1 

What  wilt  thou  exchange  for  it  ?' 

"And  the  first  time,  I  will  send 
A  white  rosebud  for  a  guerdon — 

And  the  second  time,  a  glove  ; 

But  the  third  time — I  may  bend 
From  my  pride,  and  answer — '  Pardon, 

If  he  comes  to  take  my  love.' 

"  Then  the  young  foot-page  will  run — 
Then  my  lover  will  ride  faster, 

Till  he  kneeleth  at  my  knee  : 

'  I  am  a  duke's  eldest  son  I 
Thousand  serfs  do  call  me  ma?ter — 

But,  O  Love,  I  love  but  thee  P 

"  He  will  kiss  me  on  the  mouth 
Then,  and  lead  me  as  a  lover 

Through  the  crowds  that  praise  his  deeds  1 

And,  when  soul-tied  by  one  troth 
Unto  him  I  will  discover 

That  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds." 

Little  Ellie,  with  her  smile 
^ot  yet  ended,  rose  up  gaily. 

Tied  the  bonnet,  donned  the  shoe, 


BERTHA     IN     THE     LANE.  249 

And  went  homeward,  round  a  mile,' 
Just  to  see,  as  she  did  daily, 

AVhat  more  eggs  were  with  the  two. 

Pushing  through  the  elm-tree  copse, 
Winding  up  the  stream,  light-hearted, 

Where  the  osier  pathway  leads — 

Past  the  boughs  she  stoops — and  stops. 
Lo,  the  wild  swan  had  deserted — 

A  nd  a  rat  had  gnawed  the  reeds, 

Ellie  went  home  sad  and  slow. 
If  she  found  the  lover  ever, 

With  his  red-roan  steed  of  steeds, 

Sooth  I  know  not !  but  I  know 
She  could  never  show  him — never, 

That  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds  1 


BERTHA  IN  THE  LANE. 

Put  the  broidery-frame' away, 

For  my  sewing  is  all  done. 
The  last  thread  is  used  to-day. 

And  I  need  not  join  it  on. 

Though  the  clock  stands  at  the  noon 

I  am  weary.     I  have  sewn, 

Sweet,  for  thee,  a  wedding-gown. 

Sister,  help  me  to  the  bed. 

And  stand  near  me.  Dearest-sweet. 

Do  not  shrink  nor  be  afraid. 
Blushing  with  a  sudden  heat ! 
No  one  standeth  in  the  street  ? — 
By  God's  love  I  go  to  meet. 
Love  I  thee  with  love  complete. 

Lean  thy  face  down  I  drop  it  in 
These  two  hands,  that  I  may  hold 

'Twixt  their  palms  thy  cheek  and  chin, 
Stroking  back  the  curls  of  gold. 
'Tis  a  fair,  fair  face,  in  sooth — 
Larger  eyes  and  redder  mouth 
Than  mine  were  in  my  first  youth. 


250  BERTHA     IN      THE      LANE. 

Thou  art  j^ounger  })y  seven  j'ears — 

Ah  ! — so  bashful  at  m}-  gaze, 
That  the  lashes,  hung  with  tears, 

Grow  too  heav3'  to  upraise  ? 

I  would  wound  thee  b^-  no  touch 

AVhich  thy  shyness  feels  as  such. 

Dost  thou  mind  me,  Deal*,  so  much  ? 

Have  I  not  been  nigh  a  mother 
To  thy  sweetness — tell  me,  Dear  ? 

Have  we  not  loved  one  another 
Tenderly,  from  3'ear  to  3'ear, 
Since  our  drying  mother  mild 
Said  with  accents  undefiled, 
"  Child,  be  mother  to  this  child  ?" 

Mother,  mother,  up  in  heaven. 
Stand  up  on  the  jasper  sea, 

And  be  witness  I  have  given 
All  the  gifts  required  of  me — 
Hope  that  blessed  me,  bliss  that  crowned. 
Love,  that  left  me  with  a  wound, 
Life  itself,  that  turneth  round  ! 

Mother,  mother,  thou  art  kind. 
Thou  art  standing  in  the  room, 

In  a  molten  glor\^  shrined. 
That  rays  off  into  the  gloom ! 
But  thj^  smile  is  bright  and  bleak 
Like  cold  waves — I  cannot  speak, 
I  sob  in  it,  and  grow  weak. 

Ghostly  mother,  keep  aloof 

One  hour  longer  from  my  soul — 

For  I  still  am  thinking  of 

Earth's  warm-beating  joy  and  dole  I 
On  m}'  finger  is  a  ring 
Which  I  still  see  glittering, 
When  the  night  hides  everything. 

Little  sister,  thou  art  pale 

Ah,  I  have  a  wandering  brain — 

But  I  lose  that  fever-bale. 

And  m}-  thoughts  grow  calm  agaia. 
Lean  down  closer — closer  still ! 
I  have  words  thine  ear  to  fill — 
And  would  kiss  thee  at  mv  will. 


BERTHA     IN      THE     LANE.  251 

Dear,  I  heard  tliQe  in  the  spring, 

Thee  and  Robert — through  the  trees — 

When  we  all  went  gathering 

Boughs  of  May-bloom  for  the  bees. 
Do  not  start  so  !  think  instead 
How  the  sunshine  over  head 
Seemed  to  trickle  through  the  shade. 

What  a  day  it  was,  that  day  ! 

Hills  and  vales  did  openly 
Seem  to  heave  and  throb  awa}'' 

At  the  sight  of  the  great  sky. 

And  the  Silence  as  it  stood 

In  the  Glory's  golden  flood, 

Audibly  did  bud — and  bud. 

Through  the  winding  hedgerows  green, 

How  we  wandered,  I  and  you — • 
With  the  bowery  tops  shut  in, 

And  the  gates  that  showed  the  view. 

How  we  talked  thei-e  !  thrushes  soft 

Sang  our  praises  out — or  oft 

Bleatings  took  them  from  the  croft 

Till  the  2)leasure  grown  too  strong 

Left  me  muter  evermore. 
And,  the  winding  road  being  long, 

I  walked  out  of  sight,  before. 

And  so,  wrapt  in  musings  fond, 

Issued  (past  the  wayside  pond) 

On  the  meadow-lands  beyond. 

I  sate  down  beneath  the  beech 

Which  leans  over  to  the  lane, 
And  the  far  sound  of  your  speech 

Did  not  promise  any  pain  ; 

And  I  blessed  you  full  and  free, 

With  a  smile  stooped  tenderly 

O'er  the  May-flowers  on  my  knee. 

But  the  sound  grew  into  word 

As  the  speakers  drew  more  near- 
Sweet,  forgive  me  that  I  heard 

What  you  wished  me  not  to  hear. 

Do  not  weep  so — do  not  shake- 

Oh — I  heard  thee,  Bertha,  make 

Good  true  answers  for  my  sake. 


252  BERTHA     IN     THE     LANE. 

Yes,  and  he  too  !  let  him  stand 

In  thy  thoughts  untouched  by  blame. 

Could  he  help  it,  if  my  hand 

He  had  claimed  with  hasty  claim  ? 
That  was  wrong  perhaps — but  then 
Such  things  be — and  will,  again. 
Women  cannot  judge  for  men. 

Had  he  seen  thee,  when  he  swore 
He  would  love  but  me  alone? 

Thou  wert  absent — sent  before 
To  our  kin  in  Sidmouth  town. 
When  he  saw  thee  who  art  best 
Past  compare,  and  loveliest, 
He  but  judged  thee  as  the  rest. 

Could  we  blame  him  with  grave  words, 
Thou  and  I,  Dear,  if  we  mioht  ? 

Thy  brown  eyes  have  looks  like  birds, 
Flying  straightway  to  the  light : 
Mine  are  older. — Hush  ! — look  cut- 
Up  the  street !     Is  none  without  ? 
How  the  pojjlar  swings  about. 

And  that  hour — beneath  the  beech, 
When  I  listened  in  a  dream. 

And  he  said  in  his  deep  speech, 
That  he  owed  me  all  esteem — 
Each  word  swam  in  on  toy  brain 
With  a  dim,  dilating  pain, 
Till  it  burst  with  that  last  strain. 

I  fell  flooded  with  a  Dark, 
In  the  silence  of  a  swoon. 

When  I  rose  still  cold  and  stark. 
There  was  night — I  saw  the  moon. 
And  the  stars,  each  in  its  place. 
And  the  May-blooms  on  the  grass, 
Seemed  to  wonder  what  I  was. 

And  I  walked  as  if  apart 

From  myself,  when  I  could  stand— 

And  I  pitied  my  own  heart. 
As  if  I  held  it  in  my  hand. 
Somewhat  coldly — with  a  sense 
Of  fulfilled  benevolence. 
And  a  "  Poor  thing  "  neirligence. 


BERTHA     IN      THE      LANE.  253 

Ami  I  answered  coldly  too — 

AVhen  you  met  me  at  the  door  ; 
And  I  onl}-  heard  the  dew 

Dripping  from  thee  to  the  floor. 

And  tlie  flowers  I  bade  you  see, 

Were  too  withered  for  the  bee — 

As  my  life,  henceforth,  for  me. 

Do  not  weep  so — Dear — heart-warm  1 

All  was  best  as  it  befell. 
If  I  say  he  did  me  harm, 

I  speak  wild — I  am  not  well. 

All  his  words  were  kind  and  good-— 

He  esteemed  vie  !     Oidy,  blood 

Runs  so  faint  in  womanhood. 

Then  I  alwa3's  was  too  grave — 

Liked  the  saddest  ballad  sung — 
With  that  look,  besides,  we  have 

In  our  faces,  who  die  young. 

I  had  died,  Dear,  all  tlie  same; 

Life's  long,  joj^ous,  jostling  game 

Is  too  loud  for  m}'  meek  shame. 

We  are  so  unlike  each  other, 

Thou  and  I,  tliat  none  could  guess 
We  were  children  of  one  mother, 

But  for  mutual  tenderness. 

Thou  art  rose-lined  from  the  cold, 

And  meant,  veril}^  to  hold 

Life's  pure  pleasures  manifold. 

I  am  pale  as  crocus  grows 

Close  beside  a  rose-tree's  root  ; 
Whosoe'er  would  reach  the  rose. 

Treads  the  crocus  underfoot. 

I,  like  May-bloom  on  thorn-tree — 

Thou,  like  merry  summer  bee  ! 

Fit,  that  I  be  plucked  for  thee, 

Yet  who  plucks  me  ? — no  one  mourns, 

I  haA'e  lived  my  season  out. 
And  now  die  of  my  own  thorns 

Which  I  could  not  live  without. 

Sweet,  be  merry  1     How  the  light 

Comes  and  goes  !     If  it  be  night, 

Keep  the  candles  in  my  sight 

•)9 


254  BERTHA      TN      THE      LANE 

Are  there  footstei)S  at  the  door  ?        ' 
Look  out  quickly.     Yea,  or  nay? 

Some  one  might  be  waiting  for 
Some  last  word  that  I  might  say. 
Nay  ?     So  best ! — so  angels  would 
Stand  off  clear  from  deathly  road, 
Not  to  cross  the  sight  of  God. 

Colder  grow  my  hands  and  feet. 
When  I  wear  the  shroud  I  made, 

Let  the  folds  lie  straight  and  neat. 
And  the  rosemary  be  spread, 
That  if  any  friend  should  come, 
(To  see  thee,  sweet !)  all  the  room 
May  be  lifted  out  of  gloom. 

And,  dear  Bertha,  let  me  keep 
On  my  hand  this  little  ring, 

Which,  at  nights,  when  others  sleep, 
I  can  still  see  glittering. 
Let  me  wear  it  out  of  sight. 
In  tlie  grave — where  it  will  light 
All  the  Dark  up,  day  and  night. 

On  that  grave,  drop  not  a  tear  ! 

Else,  though  fathom-deep  the  place. 

Through  the  woolen  shroud  I  wear 
I  shall  feel  it  on  mj'  face. 
Rather  smile  there,  blessed  one, 
Thinking  of  me  in  the  sun. 
Or  forget  me — smiling  on? 

Art  thou  near  me  ?  nearer  ?  so 
Kiss  me  close  upon  the  ej-es, 

That  the  earthly  light  ma^^  go 
Sweetly,  as  it  used  to  rise, 
When  I  watched  the  morning-gray 
Strike,  betwixt  the  hills,  the  way 
He  was  sure  to  come  that  day. 

So — no  more  vain  words  be  said  ! — 
The  hosannas  nearer  roll. 

Mother,  smile  now  on  thy  Dead, 
1  am  death-strong  in  my  soul. 
Mystic  Dove  ulit  on  cross. 
Guide  the  poor  bird  of  the  snows 
Through  the  snow-wind  above  loss  I 


LADY      GERALDINE'S      COURTSHIP,         255 

Jesus,  Victim,  coinprohending 

Love's  divine  self-abnegation, 
Cleanse  my  love  in  its  self-spending, 

And  absorb  the  poor  libation  1 

Wind  my  thread  of  life  up  higher, 

Up,  through  angels'  hands  of  fire  !— 

I  aspire  while  1  expire. 


LADY  GERALDINE'S  COURTSHIP. 

A  ROMANCE   OP   THE   AGE. 

A  poet  writes  to  his  friend.     Place  -J^  room  in  Wyconhe  Hall. 
Time — Late  in  the  evening. 

Dear  my  friend  and  fellow-student,  I  would  lean  my 

spirit  o'er  you  ! 
Down  the  purple  of  this  chamber,  tears  should  scarcely 

run  at  will. 
I  am  humbled  Avho  was  humble.     Friend — I  bow  my 

head  before  you. 
You  should  lead  me  to  my  peasants — but  their  faces 

are  too  still. 

There's  a  lad}^ — an  earl's  daughter — she  is  proud,  and 

she  is  nol)le, 
And  she  treads  the  crimson  carpet,  and  she  breathes 

the  perfumed  air, 
And  a  kingly  blood  sends  glances  up  her  princely  eye 

to  trouble, 
And  the  shadow  of  a  monarch's  crown  is  softeiicd  in 

her  hair. 

She  has  halls  among  the  woodlands,  she  has  castles  b}' 

the  breakers, 
She  has  farms  and  she  has  manors,  she  can  threaten 

and  command. 
And  the  palpitating  engines  snort  in  steam  across  her 

acres, 
As  the}'  mark  upon  the  blasted  heaven  the  measure  of 

the  land. 


25G        LADY     GERALDINE's     COURTSHIP. 

There  are  none  of  England's  daughters  who  can  show 
a  prouder  presence 

Upon  princely  suitors  praying,  she  has  looked  in  her 
disdain. 

She  was  sprung  of  English  nobles,  I  was  born  of  Eng- 
lish peasants ; 

What  was  /  that  I  should  love  her — save  for  compe- 
tence to  pain  ? 

I  was  only  a  poor  poet,  made  for  singing  at  her  case- 
ment, 

As  the  finches  or  the  thrushes,  while  she  thought  of 
other  things. 

Oh,  she  walked  so  high  above  me,  she  appeared  to  my 
abasement, 

In  her  lovely  silken  murmur,  like  an  angel  clad  in 
wings ! 

Many  vassals  bow  before  her  as  her  carriage  sweeps 

their  door-wa3'S  ; 
She  has  blest  their  little  children — as  a  priest  or  queen 

were  she. 
Far  too  tender,  or  too  cruel  far,  her  smile  upon  the 

poor  was, 
For  I  thought  it  was  the  same  smile  which  she  used  to 

smile  on  me. 

She  has  voters  in  the  commons,  she  has  lovers  in  the 

palace  ; 
And  of  all  the  fair  court-ladies,  few  have  jewels  half 

as  fine. 
Oft  the  prince  has  named  her  beauty  'twixt  the  red 

wine  and  the  chalice. 
Oh,  and  what   was  /  to  love  her  ?  my  beloved,  my 

Geraldine  ! 

Yet  I  could  not  choose  but  love  her.     I  was  born  to 

poet-uses, 
To  love  all  things  set  above  me,  all  of  good  and  all  (if 

fair. 
Nymphs  of  mountain,  not  of  valley,  we  are  wont  to 

call  the  Muses ; 
An  in  nj-mpholeptic  climbing,  poets  pass  from  mount 

to  star. 

And  because  I  was  a  poet,  and  because  the  public 

praised  me, 
With  a  critical  deduction  for  the  modern  writer's  fault, 


So    I    fell,   'itnick   (lo«n   before   her''' 


V 


i 


LADY     QERALDINE'S     COURTSHIP.         20i 

I  could  sit  at  rich  men's  tables — tliougli  the  courtesies 

that  raised  me, 
Btill  suggested  clear  between  us  the  pale  spectrum  of 

the  salt. 

And  they  praised  me  in  her  presence  ; — "  Will  your 

book  appear  this  summer  ?" 
Then  returning  to  each  other — "  Yes,  our  plans  are  for 

the  moors." 
Then  with  whisper  dropped  behind  me — "  There  he  is! 

the  latest  comer  ! 
Oh,  she  only  likes  his  verses  !  what  is  over  she  endures. 

"  Quite    low-born  !    self-educated  1    somcAvhat    gifted 

though  by  nature — 
And  we  make  a  point  of  asking  him — of  being  very 

kind. 
You  may  speak,  he  does  not  hear  you  !   and  besides, 

he  writes  no  satire — 
All  the  serpents  kept  by  charmers,  leave  the  natural 

sting  behind." 

I  grew  scornfuller,  grew  colder,  as  I  stood  up  there 

among  them. 
Till  as  frost  intense  will  burn  j'ou,  the  cold  scorning 

scorched  my  brow — 
When   a  sudden   silver  speaking,   gravel}^  cadenced, 

overrung  them. 
And  a  sudden  silken  stirring  touched  my  inner  nature 

through. 

I  looked  upward  and  beheld  her.     With  a  calm  nnd 

regnant  spirit, 
Slowly  round  she  swept  her  eyelids,  and  said  clear 

before  them  all — 
"  Have  3^ou  such  superfluous  honor,  sir,  that  able  to 

confer  it 
You  will  come  down,  Mr.  Bertram,  as  my  guest  to 

Wycombe  Hall?" 

Here  she  paused — she  had  been  paler  at  the  first  word 

of  her  speaking. 
But  because  a  silence  followed  it,  blushed  somewhat, 

as  for  shame, 
Then,  as  scorning  her  own  feeling,  resumed  calml}' — ■ 

"  I  am  seeking 
More  distinction  than  these  gentlemen  think  worthy 

of  my  claim 
22*  R 


258        LADY     GERALDINE'S     COIKTSHIP. 

"  Ne'ertheless,  you  see,  I  seek  it — not  because  I  am  a 
woman," 

(Here  her  smile  sprang  like  a  fountain,  and,  so,  over- 
flowed her  mouth) 

"  But  because  m}'  woods  in  Sussex  have  some  purple 
shades  at  gloaming 

Which  are  worthy  of  a  king  in  state,  or  poet  in  his 
3'outh. 

"  I  inVite  you,  Mister  Bertram,  to  no  scene  for  worldly 

speeches — 
Sir,  I  scarce  should  dare — but  only  where  God  asked 

the  thrushes  first — 
A.nd  if  you  will  sing  beside  them,  in  the  covert  of  my 

beeches, 
[  will  thank  j'ou  for  the  woodlands,  ,      .  for  the  human 

world,  at  worst." 

Then  she  smiled  around  right  childly,  then  she  gazed 

around  right  queenly. 
And  I  bowed — I  could  not  answer  ;  alternated  lighi 

and  gloom — 
While  as  one  who  quells  the  lions,  with  a  steady  eye 

serenely, 
She,  with  level    fronting  eyelids,  passed  out  statel}' 

from  the  room. 

Oh,  the  blessed  woods  of  Sussex,  I  can  hear  them  still 

around  me. 
With  their  leafy  tide  of  greener^^  still  rippling  up  the 

wind. 
Oh,  the  cursed  woods  of  Sussex!  where  the  hunter's 

arrow  found  me. 
When  a  fair  face  and  a  tender  voice  had  made  me  mad 

and  blind  I 

In  that  ancient  hall  of  Wycombe,  thronged  the  numer- 
ous guests  invited, 

And  the  lovely  London  ladies  trod  the  floors  with 
gliding  feet ; 

And  their  voices  low  with  fashion,  not  with  feeling, 
softly  freighted 

All  the  air  about  the  windows,  with  elastic  laughters 
sweet. 

For  at  eve  the  open  windows  flung  their  light  out  on 

the  terrace, 
Which  the  floating  orbs  of  curtains  did  with  gradual 

shadow  sweep, 


LADY      GERALDINE'S     COURTSHIP.        259 

While  the  swans  upon  the  river,  fed  at  morning  b}'  the 

heiress, 
Trembled   downwiird  through  their  snow^^  wings  at 

music  in  their  sleep. 

And  there  evermore  was  music,  both  of  instrument 
and  singing, 

Till  the  finches  of  the  shrubberies  grew  restless  in  the 
dark ; 

But  the  cedars  stood  up  motionless,  each  in  a  moon- 
light ringing, 

And  the  deer,  half  in  the  glimmer,  strewed  the  hollows 
of  the  park. 

And  though  sometimes  she  would   bind  me  with  her 

silver-corded  speeches 
To  commix  vay  words  and  laughter  with  the  converse 

and  the  jest. 
Oft  I  sate  apart,  and  gazing  on  the  river  through  the 

beeches. 
Heard,  as  pure  the  swans  swam  down  it,  her  pure  voice 

o'erfloat  the  rest. 

In  the  morning,  horn  of  huntsman,  hoof  of  steed,  and 

laugh  of  rider. 
Spread  out  cheery  from  the  court-j'ard  till  we  lost  them 

in  the  hills. 
While  herself  and  other  ladies,  and  her  suitors  left 

beside  her, 
Went  a-wandering  up  the  gardens  through  the  laurels 

and  abeles. 

Thus,  her  foot  upon  the  new-mown  grass,  bareheaded, 

with  the  flowing 
Of  the  virginal  white  vesture  gathered  closelv  to  her 

throat — 
And  the  golden  ringlets  in  her  neck  just  quickened  by 

her  going, 
And  appearing  to  breathe  sun  for  air,  and  doubting  if 

to  float — 

With  a  branch  of  dewy  maple,  which  her  right   hand 

held  above  her. 
And  which  trembled  a  green  shadow  in  betwixt  her 

and  the  skies, 
As  she  turned  her  face  in  going,  thus,  she  drew  me  on 

to  love  her, 
And  to  worship  the  divineness  of  the  smile  hid  in  her 

eyes. 


260      LADY    qeraldixe's    courtship. 

For  her  eyes  alone  smile  constantl}' :  her  lips  havft 

serious  sweetness. 
And   her  front  is  calm — the  dimple  rarely  ripples  on 

the  cheek  ; 
But  her  deep  blue  eyes  smile  constantly,  as  if  the^'  in 

discreetness 
Kept  the  secret  of  a  happy  dream  she  did  not  care  to 

speak. 

Thus  she  drew  me  the  first  moniing,  out  aci'oss  into 

the  garden, 
And  I  walked  among  her  noble  friends  and  could  not 

keep  l)ehind. 
Spake  she  unto  all  and  unto  me — "  Behold,  I  am  the 

wai'den 
Of  the  song-birds  in  these  lindens,  which  are  cages  to 

their  mind. 

"  But  within  this  swarded  circle,  into  which  the  lime- 
walk  brings  us. 

Whence  the  beeches,  rounded  greenh',  stand  away  in 
reverent  fear, 

I  will  let  no  music  enter,  saving  what  the  fountain 
sings  us, 

Which  the  lilies  round  the  basin  may  seem  pure  enough 
to  hear. 

"  The  live  air  that  waves  the  lilies  waves  the  slender 
jet  of  water. 

Like  a  holy  thought  sent  feebl}'  up  from  soul  of  fast- 
ing saint. 

Whereby  lies  a  marble  Silence,  sleeping !  (Lough  the 
sculptor  wrought  her.) 

So  asleep  slie  is  forgetting  to  saj'^  Hush  ! — a  fanc}' 
quaint. 

•'  Mark  how  heavy  white  her  ej^elids  !  not  a  dream  be- 
tween them  lingers. 

And  the  left  hand's  index  droppeth  from  the  lips  upon 
the  cheek ; 

While  tlie  right  hand — with  the  symbol  rose  held  slack 
within  the  fingers — 

Has  fallen  backward  in  the  basin — yet  this  Silence 
will  not  speak  ! 

"  That  the  essential  meaning  growing  ma^-  exceed  tlio 

special  symbol, 
Is  the  thought  as  I  conceive  it :  it  applies  more  higli 

and  lovv. 


LADY      GERALD  ink's     C  O  L'  U  T  S  II  1  1' .        2Gi 

Our  true  iiobleineu  will  ofleii  througli  right  nobleness 

grow  humble, 
And  assert   an  inward    honor    by  den^'ing   outward 

show." 

"  Na3\  your  Silence,"  said  I,  "truly,  holds  her  symbol 

rose  but  slackl}'^, 
Yet  she  holds  it — or  would  scarcely  be  a  Silence  to  our 

ken 
And  your  nobles  wear  their  ermine  on  the  outside,  or 

walk  blackly 
In  the  presence  of  the  social  law  as  mere  ignoble  men. 

"  Let  the  ])oets  dream  such  dreaming!  madam,  in  these 

British  islands, 
'Tis  the  substance  that  wanes  ever,  'tis  the  symbol  that 

exceeds. 
Soon  we  shall  have  naught  but  symbol!  and,  for  statues 

like  this  Silence, 
Shall    accept  the  rose's  image — in  another  case,  the 

weed's." 

"  Not  so  quickly,"  she  retorted — "  I  confess,  where'er 

you  go,  3'ou 
Find  for  things,  names — shows  for  actions,  and  pure 

gold  for  honor  clear. 
But  when  all  is  run  to  sj-mbol  in  the   Social,  I  will 

throw  you 
The  world's  book  which  now  reads  drily,  and  sit  down 

with  Silence  here." 

Half  in  playfulness  she  spoke,  I  thought,  and  half  in 

indignation  ; 
Friends  who  listened,  laughed  her  words  off,  while  her 

lovers  deemed  her  fair. 
A  fair  woman,  flushed  with  feeling,  in  her  noble-lighted 

station 
Near  the  statue's  white  reposing — and  both  bathed  in 

sunny  air  1 

With  the  trees  round,  not  so  distant  but  3^on  heard 
their  vernal  murmur, 

And  beheld  in  light  and  shadow  the  leaves  in  and  out- 
ward move, 

And  the  little  i'ouiitain  leaping  toward  the  sun-heart 
to  be  warmer, 

Then  recoiling  in  a  tremble  from  the  too  much  light 
above. 


2C2      LADY    geraldine's    courtship 

'Tis  a  picture  for  remembrance.     And  thus,  moining 

after  morning, 
Did  I  follow  as  she  drew  me  by  the  spirit  to  her  feet. 
Why  her  greyhound    followed   also  !    dogs — we  both 

were  dogs  for  scorning — 
To  be  sent  back  when  she  pleased  it  and  her  path  lay 

through  the  wheat. 

And  thus,  morning  after  morning,  spite  of  vows  and 

spite  of  sorrow, 
Did  1  follow  at   her    drawing,   while   the    week-days 

passed  along, 
Just  to  feed  the  swans  this  noontide,  or  to  see  the 

fawns  to-morrow, 
Or  to  teach  the  hill-side  echo  some  sweet  Tuscan  in  a 

song. 

Ay,  for  sometimes  on  the  hill-side,  while  we  sate  down 

in  the  gowans, 
With  the  forest  green  behind  us,  and  its  shadow  cast 

before. 
And  the  river  running  under,  and  across  it  from  the 

rowans 
A  brown  partridge  whirring  near  us,  till  we  felt  the 

iiir  it  bore — 

There,  obedient  to  her  praying,  did  I  read  aloud  the 

poems 
Made  to  Tuscan  flutes,  or  instruments  more  various 

of  our  own  ; 
Read    the   pastoral   parts  of  Spenser — or  the   subtle 

interflowings 
Found  in  Petrarch's    sonnets — here's  the  book — the 

leaf  is  folded  down ! — 

Or  at  times  a  modern  volume — Wordsworth's  solemn- 
thoughted  idjl, 

Howitt's  ballad-verse,  or  Tennyson's  enchanted  rev- 
erie— 

Or  from  Browning  some  "  Pomegranate,"  which,  if  cut 
deep  down  the  middle, 

Shows  a  heart  within  blood-tinctured,  of  a  veined  hu- 
nJanit3^ 

Or  at  times  I  read  there,  hoarsely,  some  new  poem  of 

m}^  making. 
Poets  ever  fail  in  reading  their  own  verses  to  their 

worth — 


LADY      QKRALDINE's     COURTSHIP.        2G3 

For  the  echo  in  3'ou  breaks  upon  the  words  which  you 

are  speaking, 
And  the  chariot-wheels  jar  in  the  gate  through  which 

you  drive  them  forth. 

After,  when  we  were  grown  tired  of  books,  the  silence 
round  us  flinging 

A  slow  arm  of  sweet  compression,  felt  with  beatings 
at  the  breast 

She  would  break  out,  on  a  sudden,  in  a  gush  of  wood- 
land singing, 

Like  a  child's  emotion  in  a  god — a  naiad  tired  of  rest 

Oh,^  to  see  or  hear  her  singing!  scarce  I  know  which 

is  divinest — 
For  her  looks  sing  too — she  modulates  her  gestures  on 

the  tune ; 
And  her  mouth  stirs  with  the  song,  like  song ;  and 

when  the  notes  are  finest, 
'Tis  the  eyes  that  shoot  out  vocal  light  and  seem  to 

swell  them  on. 

Then   we   talked — oh,   how  we  talked  !  her  voice,  so 

cadenced  in  the  talking. 
Made  another  singing — of  the  soul!  a  music  without 

bars. 
While  the  leaf}'  sounds  of  woodlands — humming  round 

where  we  were  walking. 
Brought  interposition  worthy-sweet — as  skies  about 

the  stars. 

And  she  spake  such  good  thoughts  natural,  as  if  she 

always  thought  them  ; 
She  had  sympathies  so  rapid,  open,  free  as  bird  on 

branch, 
Just   as    ready  to  fly  east   as    west,  whichever  way 

besought  them 
In  the  birchen-wood  a  chirrup,  or  a  cock-crow  in  the 

grange. 

In  her  utmost  lightness  there  is  truth — and  often  slie 
speaks  lightly, 

Has  a  grace  in  being  gay,  which  even  mournful  souls 
approve, 

For  the  root  of  some  grave  earnest  thought  is  under- 
struck  so  rightly 

As  to  justify  the  foliage  and  the  waving  flowers  above 


264      LADY    geraldine's    courtship. 

And  she  talked  on — we  talked,  rather !  upon  all  things, 

substance,  shadow, 
Of  the  sheep  that  browsed  the  grasses,  of  the  reapers 

in  the  corn, 
Of  the  little  children  from  the  schools,  seen  winding 

through  the  meadow — 
Of  the  poor  rich  world  beyond  them,  still  kept  poorer 

by  its  scorn. 

So,  of  men,  and  so,  of  letters — books  are  men  of  higher 

stature. 
And  the  only  men  tliat  speak  aloud  for  future  times 

to  hear ; 
So,  of  mankind  in  the  abstract,  which  grows  slowly 

into  nature. 
Yet  will  lift  the  cvy  of  "  progress,"  as  it  trod   from 

sphere  to  sphere. 

And  her  custom  was  to  praise  me  when  I  said — "  The 

Age  culls  simples. 
With  a  broad  clown's  back  turned  broadlj'  to  the  glory 

of  the  stars. 
We  are  gods  b}'  our  own  reck'ning,  and  ma}'  well  shut 

up  the  temples. 
And  wield  on,  amid  the  incense-steam,  the  thunder  of 

our  cars. 

"  For  we  throw  out  acclamations  of  self-thanking,  self- 
admiring. 

With,  at  every  mile  run  faster — '  0  the  wondrous, 
wondrous  age,' 

Little  thinking  if  we  work  our  souls  as  nobly  as  our 
iron. 

Or  if  angels  will  commend  us  at  the  goal  of  pilgrimage. 

"  Why,  what  is  this  patient  entrance  into  nature's  deep 

resources. 
But  the  child's  most  gradual  learning  to  walk  upright 

without  bane  ? 
When  we  drive  out,  from  the  cloud  of  steam,  majesti 

cal  white  horses. 
Are  we  greater  than  the  first  men  who  led  black  ones 

b}^  the  mane  ? 

"If  we  trod  the  deeps  of  ocean,  if  we  struck  the  stars 

in  rising. 
If  we  wrapped  the  globe  intensely  with  one  hot  electric 

breath, 


Went  awandering  up  the  gardfiis,  through  the  lauiols  and  alleles. 


LADY     QERALDINE'S     COURTSHIP.         265 

'Twere  but  power  within  our  tetlier,  no  new  spirit- 
power  comprising, 

And  in  life  we  were  not  greater  men,  nor  bolder  men 
in  death." 

She  was  patient  with  my  talking;  and  I  loved  her, 

loved  her,  certes, 
As  I  loved  all  heavenly  objects,  with  uplifted  eyes  and 

hands ! 
As  I  loved  pure  inspirations,  loved  the  graces,  loved 

the  virtues, 
In  a  Love  content  with  writing  his  own  name  on  desert 

sands. 

Or  at  least  I   thought  so,  purely ! — thought  no  idiot 

Hope  was  raising 
Any  crown  to  crown  Love's  silence — silent  love  that 

sate  alone. 
Out,  alas  I  the  stag  is  like  me — he,  that  tries  to  go  on 

grazing 
With  the  great  deep  gun-wound  in  his  neck,  then  reels 

with  sudden  moan. 

It  was  thus  I  reeled.  I  told  you  that  her  hand  had 
man^'^  suitors : 

But  she  smiles  them  down  imperially,  as  Venus  did 
the  waves. 

And  with  such  a  gracious  coldness,  that  they  cannot 
press  their  futures 

On  the  present  of  her  courtesy,  which  yieldingl}-  en- 
slaves. 

And  this  morning,  as  I  sat  alone  within  the  inner 
chamber. 

With  the  great  saloon  beyond  it,  lost  in  pleasant 
thought  serene. 

For  I  had  l)een  reading  Camuens — that  poem  you  re- 
member. 

Which  his  lady's  eyes  are  praised  in,  as  the  sweetest 
ever  seen. 

And  the  book  lay  open,  and  my  thought  flew  from  it, 

taking  from  it 
A  vibration  and  impulsion  to  an  end  be^'ond  its  own, 
As  the  branch  of  a  green  osier,  when  a  child  would 

overcome  it, 
Springs  up  freely  from  his  clasping  and  goes  swinging 

in  the  sun. 
23 


266      LADY    geraldine's    courtship. 

As  I  mused  I  heard  a  murmur — it  grew  deep  as  it 

grew  longer — 
Speakers  using  earnest  language — "  Ladj'  Geraldine, 

you  would  /" 
And  I  lieaid  a  voice  that  pleaded  ever  on,  in  accents 

stronger 
As  a  sense  of  reason  gave  it  power  to  make  its  rhetoric 

good. 

Well  I  knew  that  voice — it  was  an  earl's,  of  soul  that 

matched  his  station, 
Soul  completed  into  lordship — might  and  right  read 

on  his  brow  ; 
Very  finely  courteous — far  too   proud  to  doubt  his 

domination 
Of  the  common  people,  he  atones  for  grandeur  by  a 

bow. 

High  straight  forehead,  nose  of  eagle,  cold  blue  ej'es, 

of  less  expression 
Than  resistance,  coldl}'  casting  off  the  looks  of  other 

men. 
As  steel,  arrows — unelastic  lips,  which  seem  to  taste 

possession, 
And  be  cautious  lest  the  common  air  should  injure  or 

distrain. 

For  the  rest,  accomplished,  upright — ay,  and  standing 

b}'  his  order 
With  a  bearing  not  ungraceful ;  fond  of  art  and  letters" 

too  ; 
Just  a  good  man  made  a  proud  man — as  the  sandy 

rocks  that  border 
A  wild  coast,  by  circumstances,  in  a  regnant  ebb  and 

flow. 

Thus,  I  knew  that  voice — I  heard  it,  and  I  could  not 

help  the  hearkening. 
In  the  room  I  stood  up  blindly,  and  my  burning  heart 

Avithin 
Seemed  to  seethe  and  fuse  my  senses,  till  they  ran  on 

all  sides  darkening. 
And  scorched,  weighed,  like  melted  metal  round  my 

feet  that  stood  therein. 

And  that  voice,  I  heard  it  pleading,  for  love's  sake, 

for  wealth,  position, 
For  the  sake  of  liberal  uses,  and  great  actions  to  be 

done — 


LADY      GEUALDINE's      COURTS  II  11'.  201 

And  slie  intevnipted  gently,   "  Nay,  my  lord,  the  old 

tradition 
Of  3-011  r  Normans,  by  some  worthier  hand  than  mine 

is,  should  be  won." 

•'  Ah,  that  white  hand  I"  he  said  quickly— and  in  hia 
he  either  drew  it 

Or  attempted — for  with  gravity  and  instance  she  re- 
plied, 

"Xay,  indeed,  my  lord,  this  talk  is  vain,  and  we  had 
best  eschew  it, 

And  pass  on,  like  friends,  to  other  points  less  easy  to 
decide." 

What  he  said  again,  I  know  not.     It  is  likely  that  his 

trouble 
Worked  his  pride  up  to  the  surface,  for  she  answered 

in  slow  scorn, 
"And  your  lordship  judges  rightly.     Whom  I  marry, 

shall  be  noble. 
Ay,  and  wealthy.     I  shall  never  blush  to  think  how  he 

was  born." 

There,  I  maddened  1  her  words  stung  me.     Life  swept 

through  me  into  fever. 
And  my  soul  sprang  up  astonished,  sprang,  full-statured 

in  an  hour. 
Know  you  what  it  is  when  anguish,  with  apocalvptie 

NEVER, 

To  a  Pythian  height  dilates  you— and  despair  sublimes 
to  power  ? 

From  my  brain,  the  soul-wings  budded — waved  a  flame 

about  my  body, 
Whence  conventions  coiled  to  ashes.     I  felt  self-drawn 

out.  as  man, 
From  amalgamate  false  natures,  and  I  saAv  the  skies 

grow  ruddy 
With  the  deepening  feet  of  angels,  and  I  knew  what 

spirits  can. 

I  was  mad— inspired — say  either  1  (anguish   worketh 

inspiration) 
Was  a  man,  or  beast — perhaps  so,  for  the  tiger  roars, 

when  speared  ;    . 
And  I  walkeql  on,  step  hy  step,  along  the  level  of  my 

passion — 
Oh  my  soul !  and  passed  the  doorway  to  her  face,  and 

never  feared. 


268      LADY    geraldine's    courtship. 

He  had  left  her,  peradventure,  when  ray  footstep  proved 

my  coming — - 
But  for  her — she  half  arose,  then  sate — grew  scarlet 

and  grew  pale. 
Oh,  she  trembled  ! — 'tis  so  always  with  a  worldly'  man 

or  woman 
In  the  presence  of  true  spirits — what  else  can  they  do 

but  quail  ? 

Oh,  she  fluttered  like  a  tame  bird,  in  among  its  forest- 
brothers 

Far  too  strong  for  it ;  then  drooping,  bowed  her  face 
upon  her  hands — 

And  I  spake  out  wildly,  fiercely',  brutal  truths  of  her 
and  others. 

I,  she  planted  in  the  desert,  swathed  her,  windlike, 
with  my  sands. 

I  plucked  up  her  social  fictions,  bloody-rooted  though 

leaf- verdant — 
Trod  them  down  with  words  of  shaming — all  the  purple 

and  the  gold, 
All  the  "  landed  stakes  "  and  lordships,  all,  that  spirits 

pure  and  ardent 
Are  cast  out  of  love  and  honor  because  chancing  not 

to  hold. 

"  For  mj'self  I  do  not  argue,"  said  I,  "  though  I  love 

3'ou,  madam. 
But  for  better  souls  that  nearer  to  the  height  of  j'ours 

have  trod. 
And  this  age  shows,  to  m}'  thinking,  still  more  infidels 

to  Adam, 
Than  directly,  by  profession,  siuiple  infidels  to  God. 

"  Yet,  0  God,"  I  said,  "  0  grave,"  I  said,  "  0  mother's 

heart  and  bosom, 
With  whom  first  and  last  are  equal,  saint  and  corpse 

and  little  child  1 
We  are  fools  to  your  deductions,  in  these  figments  of 

heart-closing. 
We  are  traitors  to  j^our  causes,  in  these  sympathies 

defiled. 

"  Learn  more  reverence,  madam,  not  for  rank  or  wealth 

— that  needs  no  learning, 
That  comes  quickly — quick  as  sin  does,  a}',  and   cul 

minates  to  sin  ; 


LADY      GfiRALDINE'S     COURTSHIP.        2G9 

r>ut  for  Adam's  seed,  man  I  Trust  me,  'tis  acla}-  above 
your  scorning, 

Willi  God's  image  stamped  upon  it,  and  God's  kin- 
dling breath  within. 

"  What  right  have  3'ou,  madam,  gazing  in  your  palace 

mirror  daily, 
Getting  so  by  heart  your  beauty  which  all  others  must 

adore, 
"While  you  draw  the  golden  ringlets  down  your  fingers. 

to  vow  gaily 
You  will   wod  no  man  that's  only  good  to  God,  and 

nothing  more  ? 

"  Why,  what   right  have  you,  made  fair  by  that  same 

God — the  sweetest  woman 
Of  all    women  Lie  has   fashioned — with   your    lovely 

spirit-face, 
Which  would  seem  too  near  to  vanish  if  its  smile  were 

not  so  human, 
And  your  voice  of  hoi}'  sweetness,  turning  common 

words  to  grace, 

"  What  right  can  yon  have,    God's   other    works  to 

scorn,  despise,  revile  them 
In  the  gross,  as  mere  men,  broadly — not  as  noble  men, 

forsooth — 
As  mere  Farias  of  the  outer  world,  forbidden  to  assoil 

them 
In  the  hope   of  living,  dying,  near  that  sweetness   of 

3'our  mouth  ? 

"  Have  3'ou  an}-  answer,  madam  ?     If  my  spirit  were 

less  earthly. 
If  its  instrument  were  gifted  with  abetter  silver  string, 
I  would  kneel  down  where  I  stand,  and  sa}- — Behold 

me  !  I  am  worthy 
Of  thy  loving,  for  I  love  thee  !  I  am  worth}-  as  a  king. 

"As  it  is — your  ermined  jiride,  I  swear,  shall  feel  this 

stain  upon  her, 
That  /,  poor,  weak,  tost  with  passion,  scorned  b^r  mo 

and  you  again. 
Love  3'ou,  madam — dare  to  love  you — to  ray  grief  and 

your  dishonor. 
To  ray  endless  desolation,  and  your  impotent  disdain  !" 
23* 


270    LADY  GERALDINE'S  COURTSniP 

More  mad   words  like  these — mere  madness !  friend, 

I  need  not  write  them  fuller, 
For  I  hear  my  hot  soul  dropping  on  the  lines  in  showers 

of  tears. 
Oh,  a  woman  !  friend,  a  woman  !  why,  a   beast   had 

scarce  been  duller 
Than  roar  bestial  loud  complaints  against  the  shining 

of  the  spheres. 

But  at  last  there  came  a  pause.     I  stood  all  vibrating 

with  thunder 
Which  m}'  soul  had  used.     The  silence  drew  her  face 

up  like  a  call. 
Could  3'ou  guess  what  word  she  uttered  !  She  looked 

up,  as  if  in  wonder, 
With  tears  beaded  on  her  lashes,  and  said  "  Bertram  !  " 

it  was  all. 

If  she  had  cursed  me,  and  she  might  have — or  if  even, 

with  queenl}'  bearing 
Which    at  need  is  used  by  women,  she  had  risen    up 

and  said, 
"  Sir,  3'ou  are  my  guest,  and  therefore  I  have  given 

j'ou  a  full  hearing, 
Now,  beseech  3'ou,  choose  a  name  exacting  somewhat 

less,  instead." 

I  had  borne  it ! — but  that  "  Bertram  " — why  it  lies  there 

on  the  paper 
A  mere    vv'ord,  without   her  accent — and   you  cannot 

judge  the  weight 
Of  the  calm  which  crushed   my  passion.     I   seemed 

drowning  in  a  vapor — 
And    her  gentleness   destroyed   me  whom  her   scorn 

made  desolate. 

So,  struck  backward  and  exhausted   by  that  inward 

flow  of  passion 
Which  had  rushed  on,  sparing  nothing,  into  forms  of 

abstract  truth, 
By  a  logic  agonizing  through  unseeml}'  demonstration, 
And  by  youth's  own  anguish  turning  grimly  groy  the 

hairs  of  3'outh — 

By  the  sense  accursed  an  instant,  that  if  even  I  spake 

wisely 
I  spake  basely — using  truth,  if  what  I  spake,  indeed 

Was  true. 


LADY      G  E  R  A  I,  P  I  X  E  '  S      C  0  U  11  T  SHIP. 


271 


To  aAeiio'c  wrong  on  a  woman — her,  who  sato  tlicro 

■weighing  nicely 
A  poor  uuinlioocrs  worth,  fonnd  gnilty  of  such  deeda 

as  I  could  do  ! — 

By  such  Avrong   and  woe  exhausted — what  I  suffered 

and  occasioned, — 
As  a  wild  horse  through  a  city  runs  with  lightning  in 

his  eyes, 
And  then  dashing  at  a  church's  cold  and  passive  wall, 

impassioned, 
Strikes  the  death  into  his  burning  brain,  and  blindly 

drops  and  dies — 

So  I  fell,  struck  down  before  her !  do  you   blame  me, 

friend,  for  weakness? 
"Twas  rny  strength  of  passion  slew   me  I — fell  before 

her  like  a  stone. 
Fast  the  dreadful  world  rolled  from  rae,  on  its  roaring 

wheels  of  blackness  — 
When   the   light  came,  I  was   13'ing  in    this  chamber, 

and  alone. 

Oh,  of  course,  she   charged  her  lacqueys  to  bear  out 

the  sickly  burden, 
And  to  cast  it  from  her  scornful  sight — but  not  beyond 

the  gate ; 
She  is  too  kind  to  be  cruel,  and   too  haughty  not  to 

pardon 
Such  a  man  as  I — 'twere  something  to  be  level  to  her 

hate. 

But  forme — you  now  are  conscious  why,  my  friend,  1 

write  this  letter, 
How  my  life  is  read  all  backward,  and  the  charm  of 

life  undone. 
I  shall  leave  her  house  at  dawn  ;  I  would  to-night,  if 

I  were  better — 
And  I  charge  my  soul  to  hold   my  body  strengthened 

for  the  sun. 

When  the  sun  hath  dyed  the  oriel,  I  depart  with  no  last 

gazes, 
No  weak  moanings,  (one  word  only,  left  in  writing  for 

her  hands,) 
Out    of  reach    of  all    derision,  and    some    unavailing 

praises. 
To  make   front  against  this  anguish  in   the  far  and 

foreign  lands. 


272      LADY    geraldine's    courtship. 

Blame  me  not.     1  would  not  squander  life  in  grief — 

I  am  abstemious. 
I  but  nurse  my  spirit's  falcon,  that  its  wing  may  soar 

again. 
There's  no  room  for  tears  of  weakness   in   the  blind 

ej'es  of  a  Phemius  ! 
Into  work  the  poet  kneads  them — and  he  docs  not  die 

till  then. 

CONCLUSION. 

Bertram  finished  the  last  pages,  while  along  the  silence 

ever 
Still  in  hot  and  heavy  splashes,  fell  the  tears  on  everj' 

leaf 
Having  ended  he  leans  backward  in  his  chair,  with 

lips  that  quiver 
From   the   deep    unspoken,  ay,  and    deep    uuwritten 

thoughts  of  grief 

Soh  !  how  still  the  lady  standeth  !  'tis  a  dream — a 
dream  of  mercies' 

'Twixt  the  purple  lattice-curtains,  how  she  standeth 
still  and  j^ale ! 

'Tis  a  vision,  sure,  of  mercies,  sent  to  soften  his  self- 
curses — 

Sent  to  sweep  a  patient  quiet  o'er  the  tossing  of  his 
w^ail. 

"  Eyes,"  he  said,  "  now  throbbing  through  me  !  are  ye 
ej'es  that  did  undo  me  ? 

Shining  eyes,  like  antique  jewels  set  in  Parian  statue- 
stone  ! 

Underneath  that  calm  white  forehead,  are  ye  ever 
burning  torrid 

O'er  the  desolate  sand-desert  of  raj'  heart  and  life  un- 
done ?" 

With  a  murmurous  stir  uncertain,  in  the  air,  the  purple 

curtain 
Swelleth  in  and  swelleth  out  around  her  motionless 

pale  brows. 
While  the  gliding  of  the  river  sends  a  rippling  noise 

for  ever 
Through  the  open   casement  whitened  b}-  the  moon- 

light "s  slant  repose. 


That  a  broad  cloijuns  back  turned  broadly  to  the  glory  of  the  start 


LADY     GERALDINE'S     COURTSHIP.        273 

liaid  he — "Vision  of  a  lady  1  stand  there  s']ent,  stand 

there  steady ! 
Now  I  see  it  plainly,  plainly  ;  now  I  cannot  hope  or 

doubt — 
There,  the  brows  of  mild  repression — there,  the  lips  oi* 

silent  passion, 
Curved  like  an  archer's  bow  to  send  the  bitter  arrows 

out." 

Ever,  evermore  the  while  in  a  slow  silence  she  kept 

smiling. 
And    approached    him    slowl}',    slowly,   in   a   gliding 

measured  pace ; 
With  her  two  white  hands  extended,  as  if  praA'ing  one 

offended, 
And  a  look  of  supplication,  gazing  earnest  in  his  face. 

Said  he — "  Wake  me  by  no  gesture — sound  of  breath, 

or  stir  of  vesture  ? 
Let  the  blessed  apparition  melt  not  yet  to  its  divine  ! 
No  approaching — hush,   no  breathing  !  or   my   heart 

must  swoon  to  death  in 
The  too  utter  life  thou  bringest — 0  thou  dream  of 

Geraldine!" 

Ever,  evermore  the  while  in  a  slow  silence  she  kept 
smiling — 

But  the  tears  ran  over  lightly  from  her  ej^es,  and  ten- 
derly. 

"  Dost  thou,  Bertram,  truly  love  me  ?  Is  no  woman 
far  above  me 

Found  more  worthy  of  thy  poet-heart  than  such  a  one 
as  /?" 

Said  he — "  I  would  dream  so  ever,  like  the  flowing  of 

that  river. 
Flowing  ever  in  a  shadow  greenly  onward  to  the  sea  ! 
So,  thou  vision  of  all  sweetness — princely  to   a  full 

completeness — 
Would  my  heart  and  life  flow  onward — deathward — 

through  this  dream  of  thee  1" 

Ever,  evermore  the  while  in  a  slow  silence   she  kept 

smiling, 
While  the  silver  tears  ran  faster  down  the  blushin  ,  of 

her  cheeks ; 

S 


274  QUESTION     AND      ANSWER. 

Then  with  both  her  hands  enfold,ing  both  of  his,  she 

sofll}-  told  him, 
"  Bertram,  if  I  say  I  love  thee,  .  .  .  'tis  the  vision  only 

speaks." 

Softened,  quickened  to  adore  her,  on  his  knee  he  fell 

before  her — 
And  she  whispered  low  in  triumph,  "  It  shall  be  as  I 

have  sworn ! 
Very  rich  he  is  in  virtues — very  noble — noble  certes  ; 
And  I  shall  not  blush  in  knowing  that  men   call  hiin 

lowly  born." 


QUESTION  AND  ANSWER. 

Love  you  seek  for,  presupposes 

Summer  heat  and  sunny  glow. 

Tell  me,  do  3'ou  find  moss  roses 

Budding,  blooming  in  the  snow? 
Snow  might  kill  the  rose-tree's  root- 
Shake  it  quickly'  from  3'ourfoot, 
Lest  it  harm  you  as  you  go. 

From  the  ivy  where  it  dapples 
A  grey  ruin,  stone  by  stone — 

Do  you  look  for  grapes  or  apples, 
Or  for  sad  green  leaves  alone  ? 

Pluck  the  leaves  off,  two  or  three — 

Keep  them  for  moralit}'^ 

When  you  shall  be  safe  and  gone. 


THE  CRY  OF  TJIE  CHILDREN. 

Medea. 

Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  0  my  brothers, 
Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years  ? 

They  are  leaning   their   young   heads   against   thcii 
mothers, 

And  that  cannot  stop  their  tears. 


THE     CRY      OF     THE      CHILDREN.  275 

The  3"0ung  lambs  are  bleating  in  the  meadows, 

The  young  birds  are  chirping  in  the  nest, 
The  young  liiwns  are  playing  with  the  shadows, 

Tlie  young  (lowers  are  blowing  toward  the  west — 
Hut  the  young,  young  children,  0  mj-  brothers, 

The^'  are  weeping  bitterly  ! 
They  are  weeping  iu  the  playtime  of  the  others. 
In  the  country  of  the  free. 

Do  you  question  the  young  children  in  the  sorrow, 

Why  their  tears  are  falling  so? 
The  old  man  may  weep  for  his  to-morrow 

Which  is  lost  in  Long  Ago. 
The  old  tree  is  leafless  in  the  forest. 

The  old  year  is  ending  in  the  frost, 
The  old  wound,  if  stricken,  is  the  sorest. 

The  old  hope  is  hardest  to  be  lost. 
But  the  young,  young  children,  0  my  brothers, 

Do  you  ask  them  wliy  they  stand 
Weeping  sore  before  the  bosoms  of  their  mothers, 

In  our  happy  Fatherland  ? 

They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken  fixces, 

And  their  looks  are  sad  to  see, 
For  the  man's  hoar^^  anguish  draws  and  presses 

Down  the  cheeks  of  infancy. 
"  Your  old  earth,"  they  say,  "  is  very  dreary ; 
Our  young  feet,"  they  say,  are  very  weak  ! 
Few  paces  have  we  taken,  yet  are  weary — 

Our  grave-rest  is  very  far  to  seek. 
Ask  the  aged  why  they  weep,  and  not  the  children  ; 

For  the  outside  earth  is  cold  ; 
And  we  young  ones  stand  without,  in  our  bewildering, 

And  the  graves  are  for  the  old." 

"  True,"  say  the  children,  "  it  may  happen 

That  we  die  before  our  time. 
Little  Alice  died  last  year— her  grave  is  shapen 

Like  a  snowball,  in  the  rime. 
We  looked  into  the  pit  prepared  to  take  her. 

Was  no  room  for  any  work  in  the  close  clay  ! 
From  the  sleep  wherein  she  lieth  none  will  wake  her, 

Crying,  "  Get  up,  little  Alice,  it  is  day." 
If  you  listen  by  that  grave,  in  sun  and  shower. 
With  your  ear  down,  little  Alice  never  cries. 
Could  we  see  her  face,  be  sure  we  should  not  ki7  0v» 
her, 


27G  THE     CKY     OF     THE      CHILDREN. 

For  the  smile  lias  time  for  growing  in  her  eyes. 
And  merry  go  her  moments,  lulled  and  stilled  in 

The  shroud  by  the  kirk-chime  ! 
"It  is  good  when  it  happens,"  say  the  children, 

"  That  we  die  before  our  time." 

Alas,  alas,  the  children  !  thej'  are  seeking 

Death  in  life,  as  best  to  have. 
They. are  binding  up  their  hearts  away  from  breaking, 

With  a  cerement  from  the  grave. 
Go  out,  children,  from  the  mine  and  from  the  citv, 

Sing  out,  children,  as  the  little  thrushes  do. 
Pluck  your  handfuls  of  the  meadow-cowslips  prettv, 

Laugh  aloud,  to  feel  vour  fingers  let  them  througli  ! 
But  they  answer,  "  Are  your  cowslips  of  the  meadows 

Like  our  weeds  anear  the  mine  ? 
Leave  us  quiet  in  the  dark  of  the  coal-shadows, 

From  your  pleasures  fair  and  line  ! 

"  For  oh,"  say  the  children,  "  we  are  wear}' 

And  we  cannot  run  or  leap. 
If  we  cared  for  any  meadows,  it  were  merely 

To  drop  down  in  them  and  sleep. 
Our  knees  tremble  sorely  in  the  stooping. 

We  fall  upon  our  faces,  trying  to  go ; 
And,  underneath  our  heavA'  eyelids  drooping, 

The  reddest  flower  would  look  as  i)ale  as  snow 
For,  all  day,  we  drag  our  burdens  tiring 

Through  the  coal-dark,  uhderground — 
Or,  all  day,  we  drive  the  wheels  of  iron 

In  the  factories,  round  and  round. 

"  For,  all  da}',  the  wheels  are  droning,  turning — 

Their  wind  comes  in  our  faces — 
Till  our  hearts  turn — our  head,  with  pulses  burning, 

And  the  walls  turn  in  their  places. 
Turns  the  sky  in  the  high  window  blank  and  reeling, 

Turns  the  long  light  that  drops  adown  the  wall. 
Turn  the  black  flies  that  crawl  along  the  ceiling, 

All  are  turning,  all  the  day,  and  we  with  all. 
And  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  are  droning, 

And  sometimes  we  could  pray, 
"  0  3'e  wheels,"  (breaking  out  in  a  mad  moaning) 
"  Stop  !  be  silent  for  to-day  !" 

Ay !  be  silent !     Let  them  hear  each  other  ]>reathing 
For  a  moment,  mouth  to  mouth  ! 


THE     CRY     OF     THE     CHILDREN.  271 

L<;t  them  touch  each  other's  hands,  in  a  fresh  wreath 
iiig 

Of  their  tender  human  youth! 
Let  them  feel  that  this  cold  metallic  motion 
Is  not  all  the  life  God  fashions  or  reveals. 
Let  them  prove  tlieir  living  souls  against  the  notion 
That  they  live  in  yoii,  or  under  you,  O  wheels! — 
Still,  all  da}',  the  iron  wheels  go  onward, 

Grinding  life  down  form  its  mark;         »-^- 
And  the  children's  souls,  which  God  is  calling  sunward, 
Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark. 

Now  tell  the  poor  young  children,  O  my  brothers. 

To  look  up  to  liim  and  pray  ; 
So  the  blessed  One  who  blesseth  all  the  others. 

Will  bless  them  another  day. 
They  answer,  "  Who  is  God  that  He  should  hear  us, 

While  the  rushing  of  the  iron  wheel  is  stirred? 
When  we  sob  aloud,  the  iiuraan  creatures  near  us. 

Pass  by,  hearing  not,  or  answer  not  a  word. 
And  we.  hear  not  (for  the  wheels  in  their  resounding) 

Strangers  speaking  at  the  door. 
Is  it  likely  God,  with  angels  singing  round  him. 

Hears  our  weeping  any  more  ? 

"Two  words,  indeed,  of  prating  w-e  remember, 

And  at  midnight's  hour  of  harm, 
'  Our  Father,'  looking  upward  in  the  chamber, 

We  say  softly  for  a  charm.* 
We  know  no  other  words,  except  *  Our  Father,' 

And  we  think  that,  in  some  pause  of  angels'  song, 
God  may  pluck  them  with  the  silence  sweet  to  gather, 
And    hold    both    within    His    right    hand   which  is 
strong. 
'  Our  Father !'     If  He  heard  us,  He  would  surely 

(For  they  call  Him  good  and  mild) 
Answer,  smiling  down  the  steep  world  very  purely, 
'  Come  and  rest  with  me,  my  child.' 

"But  no!"  say  the  children,  weeping  faster, 
"  He  is  speechless  as  a  stone. 

*  A  fact  rendered  p-athetically  historical  by  Mr.  Home's  report 
of  his  commission.  The  name  of  tlie  poet  of  '■  Orion'"  and  "  Cosmo 
de'  Medici"  has,  however,  a  change  of  associations,  and  conies  in 
time  to  remind  nie  that  we  liave  some  noble  poetic  heat  of  litera- 
ture still — howtver  open  to  the  reproach  of  being  somewha:t  gelid 
in  our  humanity  — 1844. 
24 


278  A     CHILD     ASLEEP. 

And  tlu!}'  tell  us,  of  His  image  'is  the  master 

Who  commands  us  to  work  on. 
Go  to  !"  saj'  the  children — "  up  in  Heaven, 

Dark,  wheel-like,  turning  clouds  are  all  we  find. 
Do  not  mock  us  ;  grief  has  made  us  unbelieving— 

We  look  up  for  God,  but  tears  have  made  us  blind." 
Do  jou  hear  the  children  weeping  and  disproving, 

O  my  brothers,  what  3^0  preach  ? 
For  God's  possible  is  taught  by  his  world's  loving, 
And  the  children  doubt  of  each. 

And  well  may  the  children  weep  before  3'ou  ! 

They  are  weary  ere  they  run. 
They  have  never  seen  the  sunshine,  nor  the  glorj', 

Which  is  brighter  than  the  sun. 
They  know  the  grief  of  man,  without  his  wisdom 

They  sink  in  man's  despair,  without  its  calm  ; 
Are  slaves,  without  the  liberty  in  Christdom, 

Are  mart3"rs,  by  the  pans  without  the  palm — 
Are  worn,  as  if  with  age,  3'et  uni'etrievingl3^ 

The  harvest  of  its  memories  cannot  reap — 
Are  orphans  of  the  earthl3'  love  and  heavenl3'. 

Let  them  weep  !  let  them  weep ! 

They  look  up,  with  their  pale  and  sunken  faces, 

And  their  look  is  dread  to  see, 
For  they  mind  3'ou  of  their  angels  in  high  places, 

With  eyes  turned  on  Deit3- ! 
"How  long,"  they  say,  "how  long,  0  cruel  nation, 
Will  3-ou  stand,  to  move  the  world,  on  a  child'a 
heart — 
Stifle  down  with  a  mailed  heel  its  palpitation, 

And  tread  onward  to  3'our  throne  amid  the  mart? 
Our  blood  splashes  upward,  0  gold-heaper, 

And  3-our  purple  shows  3'our  path  ! 
But  the  child's  sob  "in  the  silence  curses  deeper 
Than  t-he  strong  man  in  his  wrath." 


A  CHILD  ASLEEP. 

How  he  sleepeth,  having  drunken 
Wear3'  childhood's  niandragore  ! 


voN^^»vvy^'a-y< 


THE  GUY  OF  THE  CHILDREN. 


A     CHILD     ASLEEP.  279 

From  his  pretty  eyes  have  sunken 
Pleasures  to  make  room  for  more — 
Sleeping  near  the  withered  nosegay  which  he  pulled 
the  day  before. 

Nosegays  !  leave  them  for  the  waking. 

Throw  them  earthward  where  they  grew. 
Dim  are  such,  beside  the  breaking 

Amaranths  he  looks  unto. 
Folded  eyes  see  brighter  colors  than  the  open  ever  do. 

Heaven-flowers,  rayed  b}'^  shadows  golden 
From  the  palms  they  sprang  beneath, 
Now  perhaps  divinely  holden, 
Swing  against  him  in  a  wreath. 
We  may  think   so   from  the  quickening  of  his  bloom 
and  of  his  breath. 

Vision  unto  vision  calleth, 

While  the  young  child  dreameth  on. 
Fair,  0  dreamer,  thee  befalleth 

With  the  glory  thou  hast  w^on  1  ^ 

Darker  wert  thou  in  the  garden,  yestermorn  by  sum- 
mer sun. 

We  should  see  the  spirits  ringing 

Round  thee — were  the  clouds  awa}'-. 
'Tis  the  child-heart  draws  them,  singing 
In  the  silent-seeming  clay. 
Singing ! — stars  that  seem  tlie  mutest,  go  in  music  all 
the  way. 

As  the  moths  around  a  taper, 
As  the  bees  around  a  rose. 
As  the  gnats  around  a  vapor. 
So  the  spirits  group  and  close 
Round  about  a  holy  childhood,  as  if  drinking  its  re- 
pose. 

Shapes  of  brightness  overlean  thee, 

Flash  their  diadems  of  3^outh 
On  the  ringlets  which  half  screen  thee, 
While  thou  smilest  .  .  not  in  sooth 
Thy  smile,   but  the  overfair  one,   dropt   from  some 
ffitherial  mouth. 

Haply  it  is  angels'  duty. 

During  slumber,  shade  by  shade 


280  THE     FOURFOLD     ASPECT 

To  fine  down  this  childish  beauty 
To  the  thing  it  must  be  made, 
Ere  the  world  shall  bring  ii  praises,  or  the  tomb  shall 
see  it  fade. 

Softly,  softly  !  make  no  noises  1 
Now  he  lieth  dead  and  dumb. 
Now  he  hears  the  angels'  voices 
Folding  silence  in  the  room. 
Now  he  muses  deep  the  meaning  of  the  Heaven-words 
as  they  come. 

Speak  not  I  he  is  consecrated. 

Breathe  no  breath  across  his  eyes. 
Lifted  up  and  separated 
On  the  hand  of  God  he  lies, 
In   a  sweetness  beyond   touching — held   in    cloistral 
sanctities. 

Could  ye  bless  him — father — mother. 

Bless  the  dimple  in  his  cheek  ? 
Dare  ye  look  at  one  another, 
And  the  benedictiu  i  speak  ? 
Would  ye    not    break  out    in    weeping  and  confesa 
yourselves  too  weak  ? 

He  is  harmless — ye  are  sinful. 

Ye  are  troubled — he,  at  ease. 
From  his  slumber,  virtue  winful 
Floweth  outward  with  increase. 
Dare  not  bless  him !  but  be  blessed  by  his  peace — 
and  go  in  peace. 


THE  FOURFOLD  ASPECT. 

When  ye  stood  up  in  the  house 

With  your  little  childish  feet. 
And,  in  touching  Life's  first  shows. 

First  the  touch  of  Love  did  meet- 
Love  and  Nearness  seeming  one. 

By  the  heartlight  cast  before. 
And,  of  all  Beloveds,  none 

Standing  farther  than  the  door. 


FOUR-FOLD  ASPECT, 


^'''^'■it\'':Z":' 


THE     FOURFOLD     ASPECT.  281 

Not  a  name  being  clear  to  thought, 

With  its  owner  beyond  call ; 
Nor  a  face,  unless  it  brought 

Its  own  shadow  to  the  wall ; 
When  the  worst  recorded  change 

Was  of  api)le  dropt  from  bough, 
Wlien  love's  sorrow  seemed  more  strange 

Than  love's  treason  can  seem  now — 
Then,  the  Loving  took  you  up 

Soft,  upon  their  elder  knees — 
Telling  why  the  statues  droop 

Underneath  the  churchyard  trees, 
And  how  ye  must  lie  beneath  them 

Through  the  winters  long  and  deep, 
Till  the  last  trump  overbreathe  them, 
And  ye  smile  out  of  your  sleep  .  .  . 
Oh,  ye  lifted   up  your  head,  and  it  seemed  as  if  thcv 
said 

A  tale  of  fairy  ships 

With  a  swan-wing  for  a  sail ! — 
Oh,  ye  kissed  their  loving  lips 
For  the  merry,  merry  tale  ! — 
So  carelessly  ye  thought  upon  the  Dead 

Soon  ye  read  in  solemn  stories 

Of  the  men  of  long  ago — 
Of  the  pale  bewildering  glories 

Shining  farther  than  we  know. 
Of  the  heroes  with  the  laurel, 

Of  the  poets  with  tiie  ba}^ 
Of  the  two  worlds'  earnest  quarrel 

For  that  beauteous  Helena. 
How  Achilles  at  the  portal 

Of  the  tent,  heard  footsteps  nigh. 
And  his  strong  heart,  half-immortal, 

Met  the  keitai  with  a  cry. 
How  Ulysses  left  the  sunlight 

For  the  pale  eidola  race, 
Blank  and  passive  through  the  sun  light. 

Staring  blindly  in  his  face. 
How  that  true  wife  said  to  Pectus, 

With  calm  smile  and  wounded  heart, 
"  Sweet,  it  hurts  not!" — how  Admetus 

Saw  his  blessed  one  depart. 
How  King  Arthur  proved  his  mission. 

And  Sir  Koland  wound  his  horn, 

24* 


282  THE     FOURFOLD     ASPECT. 

And  at  Sangreal's  moony  vision 
Swords  did  bristle  round  lilce  corn. 
Oh,  ye  lifted  up  your  head,  and  it  seemed  the  while  ye 
read, 

That  this  Death,  then,  must  he  found 
A  Valhalla  for  the  crowned, 
The  heroic  who  prevail. 
None,  be  sure,  can  enter  in 
Far  below  a  i:)aladin 
Of  a  noble,  noble  tale  ! — 
So  awfully  ye  thought  upon  the  Dead 

Ay,  but  soon  3-e  woke  up  shrieking — 

As  a  child  that  wakes  at  night 
From  a  dream  of  sisters  speaking 

In  a  garden's  summer  light — 
That  wakes,  starting  up  and  bounding, 

In  a  lonel}',  lonely  bed. 
With  a  wall  of  darkness  round  him, 

Stifling  black  about  his  head  ! — 
And  the  full  sense  of  your  mortal 

Rushed  upon  you  deep  and  loud, 
And  3'e  heard  the  thunder  hurtle 

From  the  silence  of  the  cloud  ! 
Funeral-torches  at  your  gateway 

Threw  a  dreadful  light  within. 
All  things  changed  1  3'ou  rose  up  straightway 

And  saluted  Death  and  Sin. 
Since — 3'our  outward  man  has  rallied, 

And  j'our  e^ye  and  voice  grown  bold — 
Yet  the  Sphinx  of  Life  stands  pallid, 

With  her  saddest  secret  told, 
Happ3'  places  have  grown  holy. 

If  3'e  went  where  once  ye  went, 
Onl3^  tears  would  fall  down  slo\vl3-, 

As  at  solemn  sacrament. 
Merry  books,  once  read  for  pastime. 

If  ye  dared  to  read  again, 
Onl3'  memories  of  the  last  time 

Would  swim  darkl3'  up  the  brain. 
Household  names,  which  used  to  flutter 

Through  3'our  laughter  unawares — 
God's  Divinest  3'e  could  utter 

With  less  trembling  in  3'our  pra3'ers ! 
Ye  have  dropt  adowu  3'our  head,  and  it  seems  as  if  ye 
tread 


THE     FOURFOLD     ASPECT.  28.1 

On  your  own  hearts  in  the  path 
Ye  arc  called  to  in  His  wrath — 
And  your  prayers  go  up  in  wail! 
— "  Dost  Thou  see,  then,  all  our  loss, 
Oh  Thou  agonized  on  cross? 
Art  thou  reading  all  its  tale  ? 
So  mournfully  ye  think  upon  the  Dead 

Pray,  pray,  thou  who  also  weepest, 

And  the  drops  will  slacken  so. 
Weep,  weep — and  the  watch  thou  keepest, 

AVith  a  quicker  count  will  go. 
Think — the  shadow  on  the  dial 

For  the  nature  most  undone, 
Marks  the  passing  of  the  trial, 

Proves  the  presence  of  the  sun. 
Look,  look  up,  in  starry  passion, 

To  the  throne  above  the  spheres  ! 
Learn — the  spirit's  gravitation 

Still  must  differ  from  the  tear's. 
Hope — with  all  the  strength  thou  usest 

In  embracing  thy  despair. 
Love — the  eaithly  love  thou  losest 

Shall  return  to  thee  more  fair. 
Work — make  clear  the  forest-tangles 

Of  the  wildest  stranger-land. 
Trust — the  blessed  deatldy  angels 

Whisper,  "  Sabbath  hours  at  hand  !  " 
By  the  heart's  wound  when  most  gory, 

By  the  longest  agony, 
Smile! — Behold,  in  sudden  glory 

The  Transfigured  smiles  on  thee  f 
And  ye  lifted  up  your  head,  and  it  seemed  as  if  He 
said, 

"  M3'  Beloved,  is  it  so  ? 

Have  3'e  tasted  of  my  woe  ? 

Of  my  Heaven  ye  shall  not  fail !  " — 

He  stands  brightly  where  the  shade  is, 

With  the  keys  of  Death  and  Hades, 

And  there,  ends  the  mournful  tale. — 
So  hopefully  ye  think  upon  the  Dead. 


NIGHT     AND      THE      MERRY     MAN. 

NIGHT   AND    THE   MERRY   MAN 

NIGHT. 

'Neath  my  moon  what  docst  thou, 
With  a  somewliat  paler  brow 
Than  she  giveth  to  the  ocean  ? 
He,  without  a  pulse  or  motion, 
Muttering  low  before  her  stands, 
Lifting  his  invoking  hands, 
Like  a  seer  before  a  sprite, 
To  catch  her  oracles  of  light. 
But  thy  soul  out-trembles  now 
Man^^  pulses  on  thy  brow  I 
Where  be  all  thy  laughters  clear, 
Others  laughed  alone  to  hear? 
Where,  thy  quaint  jests,  said  for  fame  ? 
Where,  thy  dances,  mixed  with  game? 
Where,  thy  festive  companies, 
Mooned  o'er  with  ladies'  eyes. 
All  more  bright  for  thee,  I  trow? 
'Neath  my  moon,  what  doest  thou. 

THE    MERRY     MAN. 

I  AM  digging  my  warm  heart, 
Till  I  find  its  coldest  part. 
I  am  digging  wide  and  low, 
Further  than  a  spade  will  go  ; 
Till  that,  when  the  pit  is  deep 
And  large  enough,  I  there  ma^''  heap 
All  my  present  pain  and  past 
J03',  dead  things  that  look  aghast 
By  the  daylight — Now  'tis  done. 
Throw  them  in,  by  one  and  one! 
I  must  laugh,  at  rising  sun. 

Memories — of  fancy's  golden 
Treasures  which  my  hands  have  holden, 
Till  the  chillness  made  them  ache. 
Of  childhood's  hopes,  that  used  to  wake 
If  birds  were  in  a  singing  strain, 
And  for  less  cause,  sleep  again. 
Of  the  moss  seat  in  the  wood, 
Where  I  trysted  solitude. 


NIGHT      AND      TUE      MERRY      MAN.  2S5 

Of  the  hill-top,  where  the  wind 

Used  to  follow  me  behind, 

Then  in  sudden  rush  to  blind 

Both  n\v  glad  eyes  with  m^-  hair. 

Taken  gladly  in  the  snare. 

Of  the  climbing  up  the  rocks — 

Of  the  pla^'ing  'neath  the  oaks. 

Which  retain  beneath  them  now 

Oidy  shadow  of  the  bough. 

Of  the  l3ing  on  the  grass 

While  the  clouds  did  overpass,  '!■ 

Only  they,  so  lightl}^  driven,  •; 

Seeming  betwixt  me  and  Heaven  I 

Of  the  little  prayers  serene. 

Murmuring  of  earth  and  sin. 

Of  large-leaved  philosophy  o- 

Leaning  from  m}'^  childish  knee.  ■( 

Of  poetic  book  sublime, 

Soul-kissed  for  the  first  dear  time — 

Greek  or  f]nglish — ere  I  knew 

Life  was  not  a  poem  too. 

Throw  them  in,  by  one  and  one  I 

I  must  laugh,  at  rising  sun. 

Of  the  glorious  ambitions, 

Yet  unquenched  by  their  fruitions. 

Of  the  reading  out  the  nights. 

Of  the  straining  at  mad  heights. 

Of  achievements,  less  descried 

By  a  dear  few,  than  magnified. 

Of  praises,  from  the  many  earned, 

AVhen  praise  from  love  was  undiscerned. 

Of  the  sweet  reflecting  gladness, 

Softened  by  itself  to  sadness. — 

Throw  them  in,  b}'  one  and  one! 

I  must  laugh,  at  rising  sun. 

What  are  these  ?  more,  more  than  these  1 

Throw  in,  dearer  memories! — 

Of  voices — whereof  but  to  speak, 

Makes  mine  own  all  sunk  and  weak. 

Of  smiles,  the  thought  of  which  is  sweeping 

All  my  soul  to  floods  of  weeping. 

Of  looks,  whose  absence  fain  would  weigh 

My  looks  to  the  ground  for  aye. 

Of  clasping  hands — ah  me  !  1  wring 

Mine,  and  in  a  tremble  flina 


EARTH     ANT>      HER     PRAISER8. 

Down^yard,  downward,  nil  this  paining! 
Partings,  with  the  sting  remaining. 
Meetings,  with  a  deeper  throe, 
Since  the  joy  is  ruined  so. 
Changes,  with  a  fiery  burning — 
(Shadows  upon  all  the  turning.) 
Thoughts  of — with  a  storm  they  came- 
Them,  I  have  not  breath  to  name. 
Downward,  downward,  be  they  cast 
In  the  pit !  and  now  at  last 
M}^  work  beneath  the  moon  is  done, 
And  1  shall  laugh,  at  rising  sun. 

But  let  me  pause  or  ere  I  cover 

All  my  treasures  darkly  over. 

I  will  speak  not  in  thine  cars, 

Only  tell  my  beaded  tears 

Silentl3^  most  silently! 

When  the  last  is  calmly  told, 

Let  that  same  moist  rosary, 

With  the  rest  sepulchred  be. 

Finished  now.     The  darksome  mould 

Sealeth  up  the  darksome  pit. 

I  will  lay  no  stone  on  it : 

Grasses  I  will  sow  instead, 

Fit  for  Queen  Titania's  tread; 

Flowers,  encolored  with  the  sun, 

And  at,  ai,  written  upon  none. 

Thus,  whenever,  saileth  by 

Tile  Lady  World  of  dainty  eye, 

Kot  a  grief  shall  here  remain. 

Silken  shoon  to  damp  or  stain  ; 

And  while  she  lisps,  "  I  have  not  seen 

Any  place  more  smooth  and  clean"  .  . 

Here  she  cometh  ! — Ha,  ha  ! — who 

Laughs  as  loud  as  I  can  do  ? 


EARTH  AND  HER  PRAISERS. 

The  Earth  is  old. 
Six  thousand  winters  make  her  heart  a-cold. 
The  sceptre  slanteth  from  her  palsied  hold. 


E  A  R.  T  II      A  N  D      11  KR      P  R  A  I  S  E  R  S .  281 

She  saith,  "  'Las  me! — God's  word  that  I  was  'good' 

Is  iixken  back  to  heaven, 
From  wheuee  when  any  sound  comes,  I  am  riven 
By  some  sharp  bolt.     And  now  no  angel  would 
Descend  with  sweet  dew-silence  on  my  mountains, 
'J'o  glorify  the  lovely  river-fountains 

That  gush  along  their  side. 
I  bce,  O  weary  change  1  1  see  instead 

This  human  wrath  and  pride, 
These  thrones,  and  tombs,  judicial  wrong,  and  blood 
And  bitter  words  are  poured  upon  mine  head — 
"  O  p]arth  I  thou  art  a  stage  for  tricks  unholy, 
A  church  for  most  remorseful  melanchol}'  1 
Thou  art  so  spoilt,  we  should  forget  we  liad   . 
An  Eden  in  thee — wert  thou  not  so  sad.' 
Sweet  children,  I  am  old  !  ye,  every  one, 
Do  keep  me  from  a  portion  of  m}'  sun, 

Give  praise  in  change  for  brightness! 
That  I  may  shake  my  hills  in  infiniteness 
Of  breezy  laughter,  as  in  youthfirl  mirth 
To  hear  Earth's  sons  and  daughters  praising  Earth," 

Whereupon  a  child  began. 
With  spirit  running  up  to  man, 
As  by  angel's  shining  ladder, 
(May  he  find  no  cloud  above !) 
Seeming  he  had  ne'er  been  sadder 

All  his  days  than  now — 
Sitting  in  the  chestnut  grove. 
With  that  joyous  overflow 
Of  smiling  from  his  mouth,  o'er  brow 
And  check  and  chin,  as  if  the  breeze 
Leaning  tricksy  from  the  trees 
To  part  his  golden  hairs,  had  blown 
Into  a  hundred  smiles  that  one. 

"  0  rare,  rai'e  Earth  !"  he  saith, 

"  I  will  praise  thee  presently  ; 
Not  to-day  ;  I  have  no  breath  ! 

I  have  hunted  squirrels  three — 
Twj  ran  down  in  the  furzy  hollow, 
Where  I  could  not  see  nor  follow. 
One  sits  at  the  top  of  tlie  filbert  tree, 
With  a  3'ellow  nut,  and  a  mock  at  me 

Presently  it  shall  be  done, 
When  I  see  which  way  those  two  have  run  ; 


2?58  EARTH     AND      HER     PRAISER8. 

When  the  mocking  one  at  the  filbert-tou 
Shall  leap  aclown,  and  beside  me  stop  ; 

Then,  rare  Earth,  rare  Earth, 
Will  I  pause,  having  known  thy  worth, 

To  say  all  good  of  thee  !" 

Next  a  lover,  with  a  dream 
'Neath  his  waking  eyelids  hidden, 
And  a  frequent  sigh  unbidden, 
And  an  idlesse  all  the  day 
Beside  a  wandering  stream, 
And  a  silence  that  is  made 
Of  a  word  he  dares  not  saj' — • 
Shakes  slow  his  pensive  head. 

"  Earth,  Earth  !"  saith  he, 
"  If  spirits,  like  thy  roses,  grew 
On  one  stalk,  and  winds  austere 
Could  but  onlj'^  blow  them  near. 

To  share  each  other's  dew ! 
I,  when  summer  rains  agree 
To  beautify  thy  hills,  I  knew 
Looking  off  from  them  I  might  see 

Some  one  very  beauteous  too — 
Then  Earth,"  saith  he, 
"I  would  praise  .  .  .  nay,  nay — not  thee.** 

Will  the  pedant  name  her  next  ? 

Crabbed  with  a  crabbed  text. 

Sits  he  in  his  study  nook. 

With  his  elbow  on  a  book. 

And  with  stately  crossed  knees. 

And  a  wrinkle  deeply  thrid 

Through  his  lowering  brow 

Caused  by  making  proofs  enow 

That  Plato  in  "  Parmenides" 

Meant  the  same  Spinosa  did — 

Or,  that  an  hundred  of  the  groping 

Like  himself,  had  made  one  Homer,  ^ 

Hovxeros  being  a  misnomer. 

What  hath  lie  to  do  with  praise 

Of  Earth,  or  aught  ?     Whene'er  the  sloping 

Sunbeams  through  his  window  daze 

His  ej'es  off  from  the  learned  phrase, 

Straightway  he  draws  close  the  curtain. 

May  abstraction  keep  him  dumb  ! 

Were  his  lips  to  ope,  'tis  certain 

"  Derivatum  est  "  woald  come. 


EARTH     AND      II  ER     PR\,ISER3  2S9 

Then  a  mourner  moveth  pule 
In  a  silence  full  of  wail, 
Kaising  not  his  sunken  head, 
Because  he  wandered  last  that  way 
With  that  One  beneath  the  clay. 
Weeping  not,  because  that  one, 
The  only  one  who  would  have  said, 
"  Cease  to  weep,  beloved  !"  has  gone 
Whence  returned  comfort  none, 
The  silence  breaUeth  suddeidy — 
"  Earth,  I  praise  thee  !"  crieth  he, 
"  Thou  hast  a  grave  for  also  me." 

Ha,  a  poet !  know  him  hy 
The  ecstasj'-dilated  eye. 
Not  uncharged  with  tears  that  ran 
Upward  from  his  heart  of  man  ; 
Bj'^  the  cheek,  from  hour  to  hour, 
Kindled  bright  or  sunken  wan 
With  a  sense  of  lonely  power  ; 
By  the  brow  uplifted  higher 
Than  others,  for  more  low  declining. 
B^'^  the  lip  which  words  of  fire 
Overboiling  have  burned  white. 
While  they  gave  the  nations  light  1 
Ay,  in  every  time  and  place 
Ye  ma}'  know  the  poet's  face 
By  the  shade,  or  shining. 

'Neath  a  golden  cloud  he  stands, 
Spreading  his  impassioned  hands. 
"  0  God's  Earth  !"  he  saith,  "the  sigc 
From  the  Father-soul  to  mine 
Of  all  beauteous  mysteries, 
Of  all  perfect  images 
Which,  divine  in  His  divine. 
In  my  human  only  are 
Very  excellent  and  fair  1 — 
Think  not,  Eartli,  that  I  would  raise 
Weary  forehead  in  thy  praise, 
(Weary,  that  I  cannot  go 
Farther  from  thy  region  low), 
If  were  struck  no  richer  meanings 
From  thee  than  th3'self     The  leanings 
Of  the  close  trees  o'er  the  brim 
Of  a  sunshine-haunted  stream, 
25  'J' 


£90  EARTH      AND      UER     PRA1SEB8. 

Have  a  sound  beneath  their  leaves, 

Not  of  wind,  not  of  wind, 
Which  the  poet's  voice  achieves. 
The  faint  mountains,  heaped  behind, 
Have  a  falling  on  their  tops, 

Not  of  dew,  not  of  dew, 
Which  the  poet's  fancy  drops. 
Viewless  things  his  ejes  can  view. 
Driftings  of  his  dream  do  light 
All  the  skies  by  day  and  night. 
And  the  seas  that  deepest  roll. 
Carry  murmurs  of  his  soul. 
Earth,  I  praise  tliee !  praise  thou  me! 
God  perfecteth  his  creation 
With  this  recipient  poet-passion, 
And  makes  tlie  beautiful  to  be. 
I  praise  thee,  0  beloved  sign. 
From  the  God-soul  unto  mine  ! 
Praise  me,  tliat  I  cast  on  thee 
The  cunning  sweet  interpretation 
The  help  and  glory  and  dilation 
Of  mine  immortality  1" 

There  was  silence.     None  did  dare 
To  use  again  the  spoken  air 
Of  that  far-charming  voice,  until 
A  Christian  resting  on  tlie  hill, 
Witli  a  thoughtful  smile  subdued 
(Seeming  learnt  in  solitude) 
Which  a  weeper  might  have  viewed 
Without  new  tears,  did  softly  say, 
And  looked  up  unto  heaven  alway 
While  he  praised  the  Earth — • 

"  0  Earth. 
I  count  the  praises  thou  art  worth. 
By  thy  waves  that  move  aloud, 
By  thy  hills  against  the  cloud, 
B}^  thy  valleys  warm  and  green, 
By  the  copses'  elms  between. 
By  their  birds  which,  like  a  sprite 
Scattered  by  a  strong  delight 
Into  fragments  musical. 
Stir  and  sing  in  every  bush  ; 
By  thy  silver  founts  that  fall. 
As  if  to  entice  the  stars  at  night 
To  thine  heart ;  by  grass  and  rush. 


EARTH     AND      HER     PRAISERS.  291 

And  little  weeds  the  children  pull, 
Mistook  for  flowers ! 

— Oh,  beautiful 
Art  thou,  Earth,  albeit  -worse 
Than  in  heaven  is  called  good  ! 
Good  to  us,  that  we  may  know 
INIeekly  from  tli3'  good  to  go  ; 
While  the  holy,  crying  Blood 
Puts  its  music  kind  and  low, 
'Twixt  such  ears  as  are  not  dull, 
And  thine  ancient  curse  I 

"  Praised  be  the  mosses  soft 

In  thy  forest  pathway's  oft, 

And  the  thorns,  which  make  us  think 

Of  the  thornless  river-brink. 

Where  the  ransomed  tread. 
Praised  be  thy  sunny  gleams, 
And  the  storm,  that  worketh  dreams 

Of  calm  unfinished. 
Praised  be  thine  active  days, 
And  thy  night-time's  solemn  need, 
When  in  God's  dear  book  we  read 

No  night  shall  be  therein. 
Praised  be  thy  dwellings  warm 
By  household  faggot's  cheerful  blaze, 
Where,  to  hoar  of  pardoned  sin, 
Pauseth  oft  the  merry  din. 
Save  the  babe's  upon  the  arm, 
Who  croweth  to  the  crackling  wood. 
Yea — and  better  understood, 
Praised  be  thy  dwellings  cold. 
Hid  beneath  tlie  churchyard  mould. 
Where  the  bodies  of  the  saints. 
Separate  from  earthly  taints, 
Lie  asleep,  in  blessing  bound. 
Waiting  for  the  trumpet's  sound 
To  free  them  into  blessing; — none 
Weeping  more  beneath  the  sun, 
Though  dangerous  words  of  human  love 
Be  graven  very  near,  above. 

"  Earth,  we  Christians  praise  thee  thus, 
Even  for  the  change  that  comes 
Witii  a  grief,  from  thee  to  us  ! 
For  thy  cradles  and  th}-  tombs, 


£d'2  THE     A^IRGIN     MARt 

For  the  pleasant  corn  and  wine, 
And  summer-heat ;  and  also  for 
The  frost  upon*  the  s^'camore, 
And  hail  upon  the  vine  1  " 


THE  VIRGIN  MARY  TO  THE  CHILD  JESUS 

But  see  the  Virgin  blest 
Hath  laid  her  babe  to  rest. 

MiLTOx's  JJi/rnn  on  the  Nalivih/. 

Sleep,  sleep,  mine  Holy  One  1 
My  flesh,  my  Lord  ! — what  name  ?  I  do  not  know 
A  name  that  seemeth  not  too  high  or  low, 

Too  far  from  me  or  heaven. 
My  Jesus,  that  is  best!  that  word  being  given 
By  the  majestic  angel  whose  command 
Was  soft]}'  as  a  man's  beseeching  said, 
When  I  and  all  the  earth  appeared  to  stand 

In  the  great  overflow 
Of  light  celestial  from  his  wings  and  head. 

Sleep,  sleep,  my  saving  One ! 

And  art  thou  come  for  saving,  baby-browed 
And  speechless  Being — art  thou  come  for  saving  t 
The  palm  that  grows  beside  our  door  is  bowed 
By  treadings  of  the  low  wind  from  the  south, 
A  restless  shadow  through  the  chamber  waving: 
Upon  its  bougli  a  bird  sings  in  the  sun  ; 
But  Thou,  Avith  that  close  slumljer  on  thy  mouth, 
Dost  seem  of  wind  and  sun  already  weary. 
Art  come  for  saving,  0  my  wearj'  One  ? 

Perchance  this  sleep  that  shutteth  out  the  dreary 
Earth-sounds  and  motions,  opens  on  thy  soul 

High  dreams  on  fire  with  God ; 
High  songs  that  make  the  pathwa3's  where  the^^  roll 
More  bright  than  stars  do  theirs ;  and  visions  new 
Of  Thine  eternal  Nature's  old  abode. 

Suffer  this  mother's  kiss, 

Best  thing  that  earthly  is, 
To  glide  the  music  and  the  glor^'  through, 
Nor  narrow  in  thy  dream  the  broad  upliftings 

Of  any  seraph  wing. 
Thus  noiseless,  thus.    Sleep,  sleep,  m}'  dreaming  One  I 


TO      THE     CHILD     JESUS.  293 

The  slnmber  of  his  lips  me  seems  to  I'un 

Through  ?n//  lips  to  mine  heart — to  all  its  shiftings 

Of  sensual  life,  bringing  coutrariousness 

In  a  great  calm.     I  feel,  I  could  lie  down 

As  Moses  did,  and  die* — and  then  live  most. 

I  am  'ware  of  you,  heavenly  Presences, 

That  stand  with  your  peculiar  light  unlost. 

Each  forehead  with  a  high  thought  for  a  crown, 

UnsunJied  i'  the  sunshine  !   I  am  'ware.     Ye  throw 

No  shade  against  the  wall!     How  motionless 

Ye  round  me  with  your  living  statuary, 

While  through  your  whiteness,  in  and  outwardly, 

Continual  thoughts  of  God  appear  to  go, 

Like  light's  soul  in  itself.     I  bear,  I  bear, 

To  look  upon  the  dropt  lids  of  3- our  e^'es. 

Though  their  external  shining  testifies 

To  that  beatitude  within,  which  were 

Enough  to  blast  an  eagle  at  his  sun. 

I  fall  not  on  my  sad  clay  face  before  ye — 

I  look  on  His.      I  know 
M}^  spirit  wiiich  dilatcth  with  the  woe 

Of  His  mortality, 

May  well  contain  your  glory. 

Y''ea,  drop  your  lids  more  low. 
Ye  are  but  fellow-worshippers  with  me  I 

Sleep,  sleep,  my  worshipped  One 

We  sate  among  the  stalls  at  Bethlehem. 

The  dumb  kine  from  their  fodder  turning  them. 

Softened  their  horned  faces 

To  almost  human  gazes 

Toward  the  newly  Born. 
The  simple  shepherds  from  the  star-lit  brooks 

Brought  visionary  looks. 
As  3'et  in  their  astonied  hearing  rung 

The  strange,  sweet  angel-tongue. 
The  maji  of  the  East,  in  sandals  worn, 

Knelt  reverent,  sweeping  round. 
With  long,  pale  beards,  their  gifts  upon  the  ground, 

The  incense,  m3'rrh  and  gold 
These  baby  hands  were  impotent  to  hold. 
So,  let  all  earthlies  and  celestials  wait 

Upon  thy  royal  state. 

Sleep,  sleep,  my  kingly  One ! 

•It  is  a  Jewish  tradition  that  Moses  died  of  the  kisses  of  God'a  lipa 
25* 


294  THE     VIRGIN     MART 

I  am  not  proud — meek  angels,  ye  invest 
Xevv  meeknesses  to  hear  such  utterance  rest 
On  mortal  lips — "  I  am  not  proud  " — nol  proud! 
Albeit  in  my  flesh  God  sent  his  Son, 
Albeit  over  Him  my  head  is  bowed 
As  others  bow  before  Him,  still  mine  heart 
]>ows  lower  than  their  knees.      0  centuries 
That  roll,  in  vision,  3^our  futurities 

My  future  grave  athwart — 
Whose  murmurs  seem  to  reach  me  while  I  keep 

Watch  o'er  this  sleep — 
Say  of  me  as  the  Heavenly  said — "  Thou  art 
The  blessedest  of  women  !" — blessedest, 
Not  holiest,  not  noblest — no  high  name, 
Whose  height  misplaced  may  pierce  me' like  a  shame, 
When  I  sit  meek  in  heaven ! 

For  me,  for  me, 
God  knows  that  I  am  feeble  like  the  rest ! — 
I  often  wandered  forth,  more  child  than  maiden, 
Among  the  midnight  hills  of  Galilee 

Whose  summits  looked  heaven-laden, 
Listening  to  silence  as  it  seemed  to  be 
God's  voice,  so  soft  yet  strong— so  fain  to  press 
Upon  my  heart  as  Heaven  did  on  the  height, 
And  waken  up  its  shadows  by  a  light, 
And  sliow  its  vileness  by  a  holiness. 
Then  I  knelt  down  most  silent  like  the  night. 

Too  self-renounced  for  fears, 
Raising  my  small  face  to  tlie  boundless  blue 
Whose  stars  did  mix  and  tremble  in  my  tears. 
God  heard  them  falling  after — with  his  dew. 

So,  seeing  my  corruption,  can  I  see 

This  Incorruptible  now  born  of  me. 

This  fair  new  Hinocence  no  sun  did  chance 

To  sliine  on,  (for  even  Adam  was  no  child) 

Created  from  my  nature  all  defiled, 

This  m3'stery,  from  out  mine  ignorance — 

Xor  feel  the  blindness,  stain,  corruption,  morf 

Than  others  do,  or  /  did  heretofore  ? — 

Can  hands  wherein  such  burden  pure  has  been, 

Not  open  with  the  cry  "unclean,  unclean," 

More  oft  than  any  else  beneath  the  skies  ? 

Ah  King,  ah  Christ,  ah  Son ! 
The  kine,  the  shepherds,  the  abased  wise, 


TO     THE     CHILD     JESUS.  295 

Must  all  less  lowl}'  wait 
Than  I,  upon  tli}'  state. — 
Sleep,  sleep,  my  kingly  One  I 

Art  Thou  a  King,  then  ?     Come,  his  universe, 

Come,  crown  me  Him  a  King ! 
Pluck  rays  from  all  such  stars  as  never  fling 

Their  light  where  fell  a  curse, 
And  make  a  crowning  for  this  kingly  brow  1 — 
What  is  my  word  ? — Each  empyreal  star 

Sits  in  a  sphere  afar 

In  shining  ambuscade. 

The  child-brow,  crowned  by  none, 

Keeps  its  unchildlike  shade. 

Sleep,  sleep,  m}^  crownless  One  ! 

Unchildlike  shade ! — No  other  babe  doth  wear 

An  aspect  very  sorrowful,  as  thou. — 

No  small  babe-smiles,  my  watching  heart  has  seen, 

To  float  like  speech  the  speechless  lips  between. 

No  dove-like  cooing  in  the  golden  air. 

No  quick  short  joys  of  leaping  babyhood. 

Alas,  our  earthly  good 
In  heaven  thought  evil,  seems  too  good  for  Thee : 

Yet,  sleep,  my  weary  One  ! 

And  then  the  drear  shnrp  tongue  of  prophecy, 
W'ith  the  dread  sense  of  things  which  shall  be  done. 
Doth  smite  me  inl}^  like  a  sword  !  a  sword  ? — 
(  That  "smites  the  Shepherd.")     Then,  I  think  aloud 
The  words  "despised" — "rejected" — every  word 
Recoiling  into  darkness  as  I  view 

The  Darling  on  m}'  knee. 
Blight  angels — move  not! — lest  3'e  stir  the  cloud 
Betwixt  my  soul  and  His  futurity  ! 
I  must  not  die,  with  mother's  work  to  do. 

And  could  not  live — and  see 

It  is  enough  to  bear 

This  image  still  and  fair 

This  holier  in  sleep, 

Than  a  saint  at  prayer: 

This  aspect  of  a  child 

Who  never  sinned  or  smiled  ; 

This  Presence  in  an  infant's  face ; 

This  sadness  most  like  love, 

This  love  than  love  more  deep, 


29")  AX      ISLAND. 

This  weakness  like  omnipotence 
It  is  so  strong  to  move. 
Awful  is  this  watching  place, 
Awful  what  I  see  from  hence — ■ 
A  king,  without  regalia, 
A  God,  without  the  thunder, 
A  child,  without  the  heart  for  play; 
Ay,  a  Creator,  rent  asunder 
From  his  first  glorj-  and  cast  away 
On  His  own  world,  for  me  alone 
To  hold  in  hands  created,  crj-ing — Son  I 

That  tear  fell  not  on  thee 
Beloved,  3'et  thou  stirrest  in  th}'  slumber ! 
Thou,  stirring  not  for  glad  sounds  out  of  numbet 
Which  through  the  vibrator}'^  i)alm  trees  run 

From  summer  wind  and  bird, 

So  quickly  hast  thou  heard 

A  tear  fall  silentl}'  ? — 

Wak'st  thou,  0  loving  One  ? — 


AN  ISLAND. 

All  goeth  but  Goddis  will. — Old  Poet. 

My  dream  is  of  an  island  place 
Which  distant  seas  keep  lonely, 

A  little  island,  on  whose  face 
The  stars  are  watchers  only. 

Those  bright  still  stars  1  they  need  not  seem 

Brighter  or  stiller  in  my  dream. 

An  island  full  of  hills  and  dells, 

All  rumpled  and  uneven 
With  green  recesses,  sudden  swells, 

And  odorous  valleys  driven 
So  deep  and  straight,  that  always  there 
The  wind  is  cradled  to  soft  air. 

Tlills  running  up  to  heaven  for  light 
Through  woods  that  half-way  ran  I 

As  if  the  wild  earth  mimicked  right 
The  wilder  heart  of  man. 


AN     ISLAND.  291 

Only  it  shall  be  greener  far 
And  gladder  than  hearts  ever  are. 

More  like,  perhaps,  that  mountain  piece 

Of  Dante's  paradise, 
Disrupt  to  an  hundred  hills  like  these, 

In  falling  from  the  skies  ; 
Bringing  within  it,  all  the  roots 
Of  heavenly  trees  and  flowers  and  fruits 

For  saving  where  the  grey  rocks  strike 

Their  javelins  up  the  azure, 
Or  where  deep  fissures,  miser-like, 

Hoard  up  some  fountain  treasure, 
(And  e'en  in  them — stoop  down  and  hear — 
Leaf  sounds  with  water  in  your  ear  !) 

The  place  is  all  awave  with  trees, 

Limes,  myrtles  purple-beaded. 
Acacias  having  drunk  the  lees 

Of  the  night-dew,  faint-headed. 
And  wan,  grey  olive-woods,  which  seem 
The  fittest  foliage  for  a  dream. 

Trees,  trees  on  all  sides  !  they  combine 

Their  plumy  shades  to  throw; 
Through  whose  clear  fruit  and  blossom  fine 

Whene'er  the  sun  may  go, 
The  ground  beneath  he  deepl}^  stains, 
As  passing  through  catliedral-panes. 

But  little  needs  this  earth  of  ours 

That  shining  from  above  her. 
When  many  Pleiades  of  flowers 

(Not  one  lost)  star  her  over, 
The  rays  of  their  unnumbered  hues 
Being  all  refracted  by  the  dews. 

Wide-petalled  plants  that  boldly  drink 

The  Arareeta  of  the  sk}-  ; 
Shut  bells,  that  dull  with  rapture  sink 

And  lolling  buds,  half  shy. 
I  cannot  count  them,  but  between. 
Is  room  for  grass  and  mosses  green, 

And  brooks,  that  glass  in  different  strengths 

All  colors  in  disorder, 
Or  gathering  up  their  silver  lengths. 

Beside  their  winding;  border. 


298  AX     ISLAND. 

Sleep,  baunted  thi'ough  the  slumber  bidden. 
By  lilies  white  as  dreams  in  Eden. 

Nor  think  each  arched  tree  with  each 

Too  closely  interlaces, 
To  admit  of  vistas  out  of  reach, 

And  broad  moon-lighted  places, 
Upon  whose  sward  the  antlered  deer 
May  view  their  double  image  clear. 

For  all  this  island's  creature-full, 

(Kept  happy  not  by  halves) 
Mild  cows,  that  at  the  vine-wreaths  pull, 

Then  low  back  at  their  calves 
With  tender  lowings,  to  approve 
The  warm  mouths  milking  them  for  love. 

Free  gamesome  horses,  antelopes. 
And  harmless  leaping  leopards. 

And  buffaloes  upon  the  slopes, 
And  sheep  unruled  by  shepherds. 

Hares,  lizards,  hedgehogs,  Ijadgers,  mice. 

Snakes,  squirrels,  frogs,  and  butterflies. 

And  birds  that  live  there  in  a  crowd. 
Horned  owls,  rapt  nightingales, 

Larks  bold  with  heaven,  and  peacocks  proud, 
Self-sphered  in  those  grand  tails  ; 

All  creatures  glad  and  safe,  I  deem. 

No  guns  nor  springes  in  my  dream! 

The  island's  edges  are  a-wing 

With  trees  that  overbranch 
The  sea  with  song-birds  welcoming 

The  curlews  to  green  change. 
And  doves  from  half-closed  lids  espy 
The  red  and  purple  fish  go  bj'. 

One  dove  is  answering  in  trust 

The  water  every  minute, 
Thinking  so  sol't  a  murmur  must 

Have  her  mate's  cooing  in  it. 
So  softly  doth  earth's  beauty  round 
Infuse  itself  in  ocean's  sound. 

My  sangiiine  soul  bounds  forwarder 

To  meet  the  bounding  waves. 
Beside  them  straightway-  I  repair, 

To  live  within  the  caves  j 


AN     ISr,AND.  299 

And  near  me  two  or  throe  may  dwell 
Whom  dreams  fantastic  please  as  well. 

Long  winding  caverns,  glittering  far 

Into  a  cr^'stal  distance  ! 
Throngh  clefts  of  which,  shall  many  a  star 

Shine  clear  without  resistance, 
And  carry  down  its  rays  the  smell 
Of  flowers  above  invisible. 

I  said  that  two  or  three  might  choose 

Their  dwelling  near  mine  own  ; 
Those  who  would  change  man's  voice  and  use, 

For  Nature's  way  and  tone — 
Man's  veering  heart  and  careless  eyes, 
For  Nature's  stedfast  s^-mpathies. 

Ourselves  to  meet  her  faitiifulness, 

Shall  play  a  faithful  part : 
Iler  beautiful  shall  ne'er  address 

The  monstrous  at  our  heart  ; 
Her  musical  shall  ever  touch 
Something  within  us  also  such. 

Yet  shall  she  not  our  mistress  live. 

As  doth  the  moon  of  ocean, 
Though  gently  as  the  moon  she  give 

Our  thoughts  a  light  and  motion: 
!More  like  a  harp  of  many  la3'S, 
Moving  its  master  while  he  plays. 

No  sod  in  all  that  island  doth 

Yawn  open  for  the  dead. 
No  wind  hath  borne  a  traitor's  oath ; 

No  earth  a  mourner's  tread. 
We  (tannot  say  b}^  stream  or  shape, 
"  I  suffered  here — was  here  betrayed." 

Our  only  "  farewell  "  we  shall  laugh 

To  shifting  cloud  or  hour, 
And  use  our  only  epitapii 

To  some  bud  turned  a  flower. 
Our  only  tears  shall  serve  to  prove 
Excess  in  pleasnre  or  in  love. 

Our  fancies  shall  their  plumage  catcii 

From  fairest  island  birds, 
Whose  eggs  let  3'ouiig  ones  out  at  hatch, 

Born  sinoin<;  I  then  our  words 


300  AN     ISLAND. 

Unconsciously'  shall  take  the  dyes 
Of  those  prodigious  fantasies. 

Yea,  soon,  no  consonant  unsraooth 
Our  smile-tuned  lips  shall  reach. 

Sounds  sweet  as  Hellas  spake  in  j'outU, 
Shall  glide  into  our  speech. 

(What  music,  certes,  can  you  find 

As  soft  as  voices  which  are  kind  ?) 

And  often,  b^'  the  joy  without 

And  in  us  overcome, 
We,  through  our  musing,  shall  let  float 

Such  poems — sitting  dumi) — 
As  Pindar  might  have  writ,  if  he 
Had  tended  sheep  in  Arcady  ; 

Or  Ji]schylus — the  pleasant  fields 
He  died  in,  longer  knowing ; 

Or  Homer,  had  men's  sins  and  shields 
Been  lost  in  Meles  flowing  ; 

Or  Poet  Plato,  had  the  undim, 

Unsetting  God  light  broke  on  him. 

Choose  me  the  cave  most  worthy  choice, 

To  make  a  place  for  pra3'er, 
And  I  will  choose  a  praying  voice 

To  pour  our  spirits  there. 
How  silverly  the  echoes  run — 
Thy  will  he  done — thy  will  be  done. 

Gently  yet  strangely  uttered  words  ! — 
They  lift  me  from  m^-  dream. 

The  island  fadeth  with  its  swards 
That  did  no  more  than  seem. 

The  streams  are  drj',  no  sun  could  find — 

The  fruits  are  fallen,  without  wind. 

So  oft  the  doing  of  God's  will 

Our  foolish  wills  undoeth  ! 
And  yei  what  idle  dream  breaks  ill, 

Which  morning-light  subdueth  ? 
And  who  would  nuirniur  and  misdoubt. 
When  God's  g-reat  sunrise  finds  Lim  out  ? 


IHE     soul's     travelling.  301 


THE    SOUL'S   TRAVELLING. 

rifracrat.  rajiaov^. 

Synesius. 

1  DWELL  amid  the  city  ever. 

The  great  humanity  which  beats 

Its  life  along  the  stony  streets, 

Like  a  strong  and  unsunned  river 

In  a  self-made  course, 

I  sit  and  hearken  ■while  it  rolls. 

Yerj'  sad  and  ver3'  hoai'se 

Ccrtes  is  the  flow  of  souls. 

Infinitest  tendencies 

By  the  finite,  prest  and  pent, 

In  the  finite  turbulent, 

How  we  tremble  in  surprise. 

When  sometimes  with  an  awful  sound, 

God's  great  plummet  strikes  the  ground  ! 

The  champ  of  the  steeds  on  the  silver  bit, 

As  they  whirl  the  rich  man's  carriage  by. 

The  beggar's  whine  as  he  looks  at  it — 

But  it  goes  too  fast  for  charity. 

The  trail  on  the  street  of  the  poor  man's  broom, 

That  the  lady  who  walks  to  her  palace-home, 

On  her  silken  skirt  may  catch  no  dust. 

The  tread  of  the  business-men  who  must 

Count  their  per-cents.  by  the  paces  they  take. 

The  cry  of  the  babe  unheard  of  its  mother 

Though  it  lie  on  her  breast,  while  she  thinks  of  tlia 

other 
Laid  3'esterday  where  it  will  not  wake. 
The  tiower-girl's  prayer  to  buy  roses  and  pinks. 
Held  out  in  the  smoke,  like  stars  by  day. 
The  gin-door's  oath  that  hollowly  chinks 
Guilt  upon  grief  and  wrong  upon  hate, 
The  cabman's  cry  to  get  out  of  the  way, 
The  dustman's  call  down  the  area-grate. 
The  young  maid's  jest,  and  the  old  wife's  scold, 
The  haggliug  talk  of  the  boys  at  a  stall, 
TLc  fight  in  the  street  which  is  backed  for  gold, 
The  plea  of  the  lawyers  in  Westminster  Hall. 

2G 


302  THE    soul's    travelling. 

The  drop  on  the  stones  of  the  blind  man's  staff 

As  he  trades  in  bis  own  grief's  sacredness, 

Tlie  brothel  shriek,  and  the  Newgate  laugh, 

The  hum  upon  'Change,  and  the  organ's  grinding 

The  grinder's  face  being  nevertheless 

Dry  and  vacant  of  even  woe, 

While  the  children's  hearts  are  leaping  so 

At  the  merry  music's  winding. 

The  black-plumed  funeral's  creepino;  train 

Long  and  slow  (and  yet  they  will  go 

As  fast  as  Life  though  it  hurry  and  strain  !) 

Creeping  the  populous  houses  through 

And  nodding  their  plumes  at  either  side — 

At  many  a  house  wliere  an  infant,  new 

To  the  sunshiny  world,  has  just  straggled  and  cried 

At  many  a  house,  where  sitteth  a  bride 

Trying  to-morrow's  coronals 

With  a  scarlet  blush  to-day. 

Slowly  creep  the  funerals, 
As  none  should  hear  the  noise  and  sa3-, 
The  living,  the  living,  must  go  away 
To  multiply  the  dead; 

Hark!  an  upward  shout  is  sent! 
In  grave  strong  joy  from  tower  to  steeple 

The  bells  ring  out — 
The  trumpets  sound,  the  people  shout, 
The  young  queen  goes  to  her  parliament. 
She  turneth  round  her  large  blue  eyes 
More  bright  with  childish  memories 
Than  royal  hopes,  upon  the  people. 
On  either  side  she  bows  her  head 

Lowly,  with  a  queenly  grace. 
And  smile  most  trusting-innocent. 
As  if  she  smiled  upon  her  mother; 
The  thousands  press  before  each  other 

To  bless  her  to  her  face  ; 
And  booms  the  deep  majestic  voice 
Through  trump  and  drum — "  May  the  queen  rejoice 
In  the  people's  liberties  !" — 

I  dwell  amid  the  city, 

And  hear  the  flow  of  souls  in  act  and  speech, 
For  pomp  or  trade,  for  merry  make  or  folly. 
I  hear  the  confluence  and  sum  of  each, 

And  tliat  is  melancholy  ! — 
Thy  voice  is  a  complaint,  0  crowned  city, 
The  blue  sky  covering  thee  like  God's  great  pity. 


THE    soul's    travelling.  3U/) 

0  blue  sk}' !  it  mindetli  me 
Of  places  where  I  used  to  see 
Its  vast  unbroken  circle  thrown 
From  the  far  pale  peaked  hill 
Out  to  the  last  verge  of  ocean, 
As  by  God's  arm  it  were  done 

Then  for  the  first  time,  with  tlie  emotion 
Of  that  first  impulse  on  it  still. 
Oh,  we  s[)irits  fly  at  will, 
Faster  than  the  winged  steed 
Whereof  in  old  book  we  read. 
With  the  sunlight  foaming  back 
From  his  flanks  to  a  misty  wrack, 
And  his  nostril  reddening  proud 
As  he  breasteth  the  steep  thunder-cloud— 
Smoother  than  Sabrina's  chair 
Gliding  up  from  wave  to  air, 
While  she  smileth  debonair 
Yet  holy,  coldly  and  yet  brightl}', 
Like  her  own  mooned  waters  nightly, 
Through  her  drip[)ing  hair. 

Very  fast  and  smooth  we  fly, 
Spirits,  though  tlie  flesh  be  bj'. 
All  looks  feed  not  from  the  eye, 
Nor  all  hearings  from  the  ear; 
We  can  hearken  and  espy 
Witliout  either;  we  can  journey 
Bold  and  gay  as  knight  to  tourney, 
And  though  we  wear  no  visor  down 
To  dark  our  countenance,  the  foe 
Shall  never  chafe  us  as  we  go. 

1  am  gone  from  peopled  town  ! 

It  passeth  its  street-thunder  round 

My  bod}'  which  yet  hears  no  sound. 

For  now  another  sound,  another 

Vision,  my  soul's  senses  have — 

O'er  a  hundred  valleys  deep 

Where  the  hills'  green  shadows  sleep, 

Scarce  known,  (because  the  valley-trees 

Cross  those  upland  images) 

O'er  a  hundred  hills,  each  other 

Watching  to  the  western  wave, 

I  have  travelled — I  have  found 

The  silent,  lone,  remembered  ground. 


304  THE    soul's    travelltno, 

I  have  found  a  grassy  niche 

Hollowed  in  a  seaside  hill, 

As  if  the  ocean-grandeur  which 

Is  aspectable  from  the  place 

Had  struck  the  hill  as  Avith  a  mace 

Sudden  and  cleaving.     You  might  fill 

That  little  nook  with  the  little  cloud 

Which  sometimes  lieth  by  the  moon 

To  beautify  a  night  of  June. 

A  cave  like  nook,  which,  opening  all 

To  the  wide  sea,  is  disallowed 

From  its  own  earth's  sweet  pastoral; 

Cavelike,  but  roofless  overhead. 

And  made  of  verdant  banks  instead 

Of  any  rocks,  with  flowerets  spread. 

Instead  of  spar  and  stalactite. 

Cowslips  and  daisies,  gold  and  white. 

Such  pretty  flowers  on  such  green  sward. 

You  think  the  sea  they  look  toward 

Doth  serve  them  for  another  .sk}^ 

As  warm  and  blue  as  that  on  high. 

And  in  this  hollow  is  a  seat, 

And  when  you  shall  have  crept  to  it. 

Slipping  down  the  banks  too  steep 

To  be  o'erbrowzed  by  the  sheep. 

Do  not  think — though  at  your  feet 

The  cliffs  disrupt — you  shall  behold 

The  line  where  earth  and  ocean  meet. 

You  sit  too  much  above  to  view 

The  solemn  confluence  of  the  two. 

You  can  hear  them  as  they  greet ; 

You  can  hear  that  evermore 

Distance-softened  noise,  more  old 

Than  Nereid's  singing — the  tide  spent 

Joining  soft  issues  with  the  shore 

In  harmony  of  discontent — 

And  when  you  hearken  to  the  grave 

Lamenting  of  the  underwave, 

You  must  believe  in  earth's  commuuio/;, 

Albeit  you  witness  not  the  union. 

Except  that  sound,  the  place  is  full 
Of  silences,  which  when  you  cull 
Bj'  any  word,  it  thrills  you  so 
That  presently  you  let  them  grow 


THE    soul's    travelling.  305 

To  meditation's  fullest  length 
Across  3'our  soul  with  a  soul's  strength  : 
And  as  they  touch  your  soul,  they  borrow 
Both  of  its  gran<leur  and  its  sorrow, 
That  deathly  odour  which  the  clay 
Leaves  on  its  deathlessness  alway. 

Alway  !  alway  ?  must  this  be  ? 

Rapid  Soul  from  cit}'  gone, 

Dost  thou  carry  inwardly 

What  doth  make  the  city's  moan  ? 

Must  this  deep  sigh  of  thine  own 

Haunt  thee  with  luimanit3'? 

Green-visioned  banlcs  that  are  too  steep 

To  be  o'erbrowzed  by  the  sheep, 

May  all  sad  thoughts  adown  you  creep 

Without  a  shepherd  ? — Mighty  sea, 

Can  we  dwarf  th}'  magnitude, 

And  fit  it  to  our  straitest  mood  ? — 

0  fair,  fair  Nature  !  are  we  thus 

Impotent  and  querulous 

Among  thy  workings  glorious. 

Wealth  and  sanctities — that  still 

Leave  us  vacant  and  defiled, 

And  wailing  like  a  soft-kissed  child, 

Kissed  soft  against  his  will? 

God,  God  I 

With  a  child's  voice  I  cry, 

Weak,  sad,  confidingly — 
God,  God  ! 
Thou  knowest,  eyelids,  raised  not  alwaj's  up 
Unto  thy  love,  (as  none  of  ours  are)  droop 

As  ours,  o'er  many  a  tear  ! 
Thou  knowest,  though  thy  universe  is  broad, 
Two  little  tears  suffice  to  coA'er  all. 
Thou  knowest,  thou,  who  art  so  prodigal 
Of  beauty,  ne  are  oft  but  stricken  deer 
P^xpiring  in  the  woods — that  care  for  none 
Of  those  delightsome  flowers  they  die  upon. 

0  blissful  Mouth  which  breathed  the  mournful  breatlj 
We  name  our  souls,  self-spoilt ! — by  that  strong  pas- 
sion 
Which  paled  thee  once  with   sighs — by  that  strong 
death 
26*  U 


306  TO     BETTINE. 

Which  made  thee  once  unbreathing — from  the  wrack 
Themselves  have  called  around  them,  call  them  back, 
Back  to  thee  in  continuous  aspiration  ! 

For  here,  0  Lord, 
For  here  they  travel  vainly — vainly  pass 
From  city  pavement  to  untrodden  sward, 
Wliere  the  lark  finds  her  deep  nest  in  the  grass. 
Cold  with  the  earth's  last  dew.     Yea,  very  vaia 
The  greatest  speed  of  all  these  souls  of  men, 
Unless  they  travel  upvvard  to  the  throne, 
Where  sittest  Tiiou  the  satisfying  One, 
With  help  for  sins  and  holy  pcrfeetings 
For  all  requirements — wliile  the  archangel,  raising 
Unto  thy  face  his  full  ecstatic  gazing, 
Forgets  the  rush  and  rapture  of  his  wings. 


TO    BETTINE, 

THE  CHILD-FRIEND   OF  GOETHE. 
"  I  have  the  second  sight,  Goethe  !" — Letters  of  a  child. 

Bettine,  friend  of  Goethe, 
Hadst  thou  the  second  sight — 
Upturning  worship  and  delight 

With  such  a  loving  duty 
To  his  grand  face,  as  women  will, 
The  childhood  'neath  thine  eyelids  still  ? 

Before  his  shrine  to  doom  thee 

Using  the  same  ciiild's  smile 

That  heaven  and  earth,  beheld  erewliile 

For  the  first  time,  Avon  from  thee. 
Ere  star  and  flower  grew  dim  and  dead, 
Save  at  his  feet  and  o'er  his  head  ? 

Digging  thine  heart  and  throwing 
Away  its  childhood's  gold, 
That  so  its  woman-depth  might  hold 

His  spirit's  overflowing. 
For  surging  souls,  no  worlds  can  bound, 
Their  channel  in  the  heart  have  found. 


BETTINE. 


TO     BETTINE.  30" 

0  child,  to  change  appointed, 
Thou  hadst  not  second  sight  I 
What  eyes  the  future  view  aright, 

Unless  by  tears  anointed  ? 
Yea,  only  tears  themselves  can  shovr 
The  burning  ones  that  have  to  flow. 

0  woman,  deeplj'  loving, 
Thou  hadst  not  second  sight ! 
The  star  is  very  high  and  bright, 

And  none  can  see  it  moving. 
Love  looks  around,  below,  above, 
Yet  all  his  prophec}'  is — love. 

The  bird  thy  childhood's  playing 
Sent  onward  o'er  the  sea, 
Thy  dove  of  hope  came  back  to  thee 

Without  a  leaf.     Art  la3'ing 
Its  wet  cold  wings  no  sun  can  dry. 
Still  in  thy  bosom  secretly  ? 

Our  Goethe's  friend,  Bettine, 
I  have  the  second  sight ! 
The  stone  upon  his  grave  is  white. 

The  funeral  stone  between  ye; 
And  in  thy  mirror  thou  hast  viewed 
Some  change  as  hardly  understood. 

Where's  childhood  ?  where  is  Goethe  F 
The  tears  are  in  thine  eyes. 
Nay,  thou  shalt  yet  reorganize 

Thy  maidenhood  of  beauty 
In  his  own  glory,  which  is  smooth 

Of  wrinkles  and  subnme  in  youth. 

• 

The  poet's  arms  have  wound  thee, 
He  breathes  upon  thy  brow, 
He  lifts  thee  upward  in  the  glow 

Of  his  great  genius  round  thee— 
The  child-like  poet  undefiled 
Preserving  evermore  The  Child. 


S08  MAN     AND     NATUBK. 


MAN  AND  NATURE. 

A  SAD  man  on  a  =>uinmer  clay 

Did  look  upon  the  earth  and  say — 

"Purple  cloud,  the  hill-top  binding, 
Folded  hills,  the  valleys  wind  in, 
Yalleys,  with  fresh  streams  among  you, 
Streams,  with  bosky  trees  along  you. 
Trees,  with  many  birds  and  blossoms, 
Birds,  with  music  trembling  bosoms, 
Blossoms,  dropping  dews  that  wreathe  yovi 
To  your  fellow  flowers  beneath  you, 
Flowers,  that  constellate  on  earth. 
Earth,  that  shakest  to  the  mirth 
Of  the  merry  Titan  ocean. 
All  his  shining  hair  in  motion  ! 
Why  am  I  thus  the  only  one 
Who  can  be  dai'k  beneath  the  sun  ?" 

But  when  the  summer  day  was  past. 
He  looked  to  heaven  and  smiled  at  last, 
Self-answered  so — 

"  Because,  0  cloud, 
Pressing  with  thy  crumpled  shroud 
Heavily  on  mountain  top — 
Hills,  that  almost  seem  to  drop, 
Stricken  with  a  mist3^  death, 
To  the  valleys  underneath — 
Yalleys,  sighing  with  the  torrent — 
Waters,  streaked  with  branches  horrent — 
Branchless  trees,  that  shake  your  head 
Wildl}'  o'er  your  blossoms  spread 
W^here  the  common  flowers  are  found — 
Flowers,  with  foreheads  to  the  ground — 
Ground,  that  shriekest  while  the  sea 
With  his  iron  smiteth  thee — 
I  am,  besides,  the  onl^-  one 
Who  can  be  bright  without  the  sun." 


A     SEA-SIDE     WALK.  309 


A  SEA-SIDE  WALK. 


We  walked  beside  the  sea 
After  a  da}'  which  perished  silently 
Of  its  own  gloiy — like  the  princess  weird 
Who,  combating  the  Genius,  scorched  and  seared 
Uttered  with  burning  breath,  "  Ho  !  victory  1" 
And  sank  adown  an  heap  of  ashes  pale. 

So  runs  tiie  Arab  tale. 

The  sky  above  us  showed 
A  universal  and  uninoving  cloud, 
On  which  the  clirts  permitted  us  to  see 
Only  the  outline  of  their  majesty, 
As  master  minds  when  gazed  at  by  the  crowd  I 
And,  shining  with  a  gloom,  the  water  gray 

Swung  in  its  moon-taught  way. 

No  moon,  nor  stars  were  out. 
They  did  not  dare  to  tread  so  soon  about, 
Though  trembling,  in  the  footsteps  of  the  sun, 
The  light  was  neither  night's  nor  day's,  but  one 
Which,  life-like,  had  a  beauty  in  its  doubt. 
And  Silence's  impassioned  breathings  round 

Seemed  wandering  into  sound. 

0  solemn-beating  heart 
Of  nature  !   I  have  knowledge  that  thou  art 
Bound  unto  man's  b}^  coids  he  cannot  sever — 
And,  what  time  they  are  slackened  b}^  him  ever, 
So  to  attest  his  own  supernal  part, 
Still  runneth  tliy  vibration  fast  and  strong 

The  slackened  cord  along. 

For  though  we  never  spoke 
Of  the  gray  water  and  the  shaded  rock, 
Dark  wave  and  stone  unconsciously  were  fused 
Into  the  plaintive  speaking  that  we  used 
Of  absent  friends  and  memories  unforsook ; 
And,  had  we  seen  each  other's  face,  we  had 

Seen  haply,  each  was  sad. 


310  THE     SEA-MEW. 


THE  SEA-MEW. 

AFFECTIONATELY     r.x'SCRIBED     TO    M.    E.     B. 

How  joyously  the  young  sea-mew 
Lay  dreaming  on  the  waters  blue, 
Whereon  our  little  bark  had  thrown 
A  little  shade,  the  only  one — 
But  shadows  ever  man  pursue. 

Familiar  with  the  waves  and  free 
As  if  their  own  white  foam  where  he, 
His  heart  upon  the  heart  of  ocean 
Lay  learning  all  its  mystic  motion, 
And  throbbing  to  the  throbbing  sea 

And  such  a  brightness  in  his  eye, 
As  if  the  ocean  and  the  sky 
Within  him  had  lit  up  and  nurst 
A  soul  God  gave  him  not  at  first, 
To  comprehend  their  majesty. 

We  were  not  cruel,  yet  did  sunder 

His  white  wing  from  the  blue  waves  under. 

And  bound  it,  while  his  fearless  eyes 

Shone  up  to  ours  in  calm  surprise, 

As  deeming  us  some  ocean  wonder  ! 

We  bore  our  ocean  bird  unto 
A  grassy  place,  where  he  might  view 
The  flowers  tliat  curtsey  to  the  bees. 
The  waving  of  the  tall  green  trees. 
The  falling  of  the  silver  dew. 

But  flowers  of  earth  were  pale  to  him 
Who  had  seen  the  rainbow  fishes  swim  ; 
And  when  earth's  dew  around  him  lay 
He  thought  of  ocean's  winged  spray. 
And  his  eye  waxed  sad  and  dim. 

The  green  trees  round  him  only  made 
A  prison  with  their  darksome  shade  ; 
And  drooped  his  wing,  and  mourned  he 
For  his  own  boundless  glittering  sea — 
Albeit  he  knew  not  they  could  fade. 


FELICIA      HE  MANS.  ".Il 

Then  One  her  gladsome  face  did  bring, 
Her  gentle  voice's  murmuring, 
In  ocean's  stead  his  heart  to  move 
And  teach  him  what  was  human  love — 
He  thought  it  a  strange,  mournful  thing. 

He  lay  down  in  his  grief  to  die, 
(First  looking  to  the  sea-like  sky 
That  hath  no  waves  !)  because,  alas  ! 
Our  human  touch  did  on  him  pass, 
And  with  our  touch,  our  agony. 


FELICIA    HEMANS. 

TO  L.  E.  L.,  REFERRING  TO  HER  MONODY  ON  THE  POETESS. 

Thou  ba,y-crovvned  living  One  that  o'er  the  bay-crowned 

Dead  art  bowing, 
And  o'er  the  shadeless,  moveless  brow  the  vital  shadow 

throwing, 
And  o'er  the  sighless,  songless  lips  the  wail  and  music 

wedding, 
And  dropping  o'er  the  tranquil  eyes,  the  tears  not  of 

their  shedding ! — 

Take  music  from  the  silent  Dead,  whose  meaning  is 

completer. 
Reserve  thy  tears  for  living  brows,  where  all  such  tears 

are  raeeter, 
And  leave  the  violets  in  the  grass  to  brighten  where 

thou  treadest ! 
J^o  flowers  for  her  !  no  need  of  flowers — albeit  "  bring 

flowers,"  thou  saidest. 

Yes,  flowers,  to  crown  the  "  cup  and  lute  !  "  since  both 
may  come  to  breaking. 

Or  flowers,  to  greet  the  "  bride  1  "  the  hearts  own  boat- 
ing works  its  aching. 

Or  flowers,  to  soothe  the  "  captive's  "  sight,  from  earth's 
free  bosom  gathered, 

Reminding  of  his  early  hope,  then  withering  as  it 
withered. 


212  FELICIA     HEMANS. 

But  bring  not  near  the  solemn  corse,  a  t^q^e  of  human 
seeming. 

Lay  only  dust's  stern  verity  upon  the  dust  undream- 
ing. 

And  while  the  calm  perpetual  stars  shall  look  upon  it 
solely, 

Her  sphered  soul  shall  look  on  them,  with  eyes  more 
bright  and  holy. 

Nor  mourn,  0  living  One,  because  her  part  in  life  was 

mourning. 
Would  she  have  lost  the  poet's  fire  for  anguish  of  the 

burning  ? — 
The  minstrel  harp,  for  the  strained  string  ?  the  tripod, 

for  the  aflflated 
Woe  ?  or  the  vision,  for  those  tears  in  Avhich  it  shone 

dilated  ? 

Perhaps  she  shuddered  while  the  world's  cold  hand 

her  brow  was  wreathing, 
But  never  wronged  that  m^'stic  breath  which  breathed 

in  all  her  breathing, 
Which  drew  from  rocky  earth  and  man,  abstractions 

high  and  moving. 
Beauty,  if  not  the  beautiful,  and  love,  if  not  the  loving. 

Such  visionings  have  paled  in  sight ;  the  Saviour  she 

descrieth, 
And  little  recks  who  wreathed  the  brow  which  on  His 

bosom  lieth. 
The  whiteness  of  His  innocence  o'er  all  her  garments 

flowing. 
There,  learneth  she  the  sweet  "  new  song,"  she  will 

not  mourn  in  knowing. 

Be  happj',  crowned  and  living  Onel  and,  as  th}-  dust 

decayeth, 
May  thine  own  England  say  for  thee,  what  now  for 

Her  it  sa^^eth — 
"  Albeit  softly  in  our  ears  her  silver  song  was  ringing, 
The  foot-fall  of  her  parting  soul  is  softer   than   hei 

singing  I" 


E.      L.'S      LAST      QUESTION.  31: 


L.  E.  L'S  LAST  QUESTIOX. 

'•  Do  you  think  of  me  as  I  think  of  you?" 

Fioia  Iter  poem  wiiHen  during  lite  voyatje  to  the  Capt 

"Do  3'ou  think  of  me  as  I  think  of  yon, 

My  friends,  my  friends  ?" — She  said  it  from  the  sea, 

The  English  minstrel  in  her  minstrelsy, 

While,  under  brighter  skies  than  erst  she  knew, 

Her  heart  grew  dark,  and  groped  tliere,  as  the  blind, 

To  reach  across  the  waves  friends  left  behind — 

"  Do  you  think  of  me  as  I  think  of  you?" 

It  seemed  not  mucii  to  ask — as  I  of  you? 
We  all  do  ask  the  same.     No  eyelids  cover 
Within  the  meekest  eyes,  that  question  over. 
And  little  in  the  worhl  the  Loving  do 
But  sit  (among  the  rocks?)  and  listen  for 
The  echo  of  their  own  love  evermore — 
*'  Do  you  think  of  me  as  I  think  of  you  ?" 

Love-learned  slie  had  sung  of  love  and  love — • 
And  like  a  child  that,  sleeping  with  dropt  head 
Upon  the  fairy-book  he  lately  read. 
Whatever  household  noises  round  him  move, 
Hears  in  his  dream  some  elfin  turbulence — 
Even  so,  suggestive  to  her  inward  sense, 
All  sounds  of  life  assumed  one  tune  of  love. 

And  when  the  glory  of  her  dream  withdrew, 

When  kniglitly  gestes  and  courtly  pageantries 

Were  broken  in  her  visionary  eyes 

By  tears  the  solemn  seas  attested  true — 

Forgetting  that  sweet  lute  beside  her  hand 

She  asked  not — Do  you  praise  me,  0  m}-  land  ? — 

But — "  Think  3-e  of  me,  friends,  as  I  of  you  ?" 

Hers  was  the  hand  that  pla3'ed  for  many  a  .year 
Love's  silver  phrase  for  England — smooth  and  well 
Would  God,  her  heart's  more  inward  oracle 
In  that  lone  moment  might  confirm  her  clearl 
For  when  her  questioned  friends  in  agony 
Made  passionate  response,  "  We  think  of  thee," 
Her  place  was  in  the  dust,  too  deep  to  hear. 
27 


314  CROAVNED    AND    WEDDED. 

Could  she  not  wait  to  catch  their  answering  breath? 

Was  she  content,  content  with  ocean's  sound, 

Which  dashed  its  mocking  infinite  around 

One  thirsty  for  a  little  love  ? — beneath 

Those  stars  content,  where  last  her  song  had  gone— 

They  mute  and  cold  in  radiant  life — as  soon 

Their  singer  was  to  be,  in  darksome  death  ?* 

Bring  30ur  vain  answers — cry,  "  We  think  of  thee  1" 

How  think  ye  of  her?  warm  in  long  ago 

Delights? — or  crowned  with  budding  bays?     Not  so 

None  smile  and  none  are  crowned  where  lieth  she, 

With  all  her  visions  unfulfilled  save  one, 

Her  childhood's — of  the  palm-trees  in  the  sun — • 

And  lo  !  their  shadow  on  her  sepulchre ! 

"  Do  ye  think  of  me  as  I  think  of  you  ?" — 

O  friends,  0  kindred,  0  dear  brotherhood 

Of  all  the  world  !  what  are  we,  that  Ave  should 

For  covenants  of  long  aflTection  sue  ? 

"Why  press  so  near  each  other  when  the  touch 

Is  barred  by  graves  ?     Not  much,  and  yet  too  much, 

Is  this  "  Think  of  me  as  I  think  of  3'ou." 

But  while  on  mortal  lips  I  shape  anew 
A  sigh  to  mortal  issues — verily 
Above  the  unshaken  stars  that  see  us  die, 
A  vocal  pathos  rolls  ;  aud  He  who  drew 
All  life  from  dust,  and  for  all,  tasted  death. 
By  death  and  life  and  love,  appealing,  saith, 
"  Do  you  think  of  me  as  I  think  of  you  ?" 


CROWNED  AND  WEDDED. 

When  last  before  her  people's  face  her  own  fair  face 

she  bent. 
Within  the  meek  projection  of  that  shade   she   was 

content 
To  erase  the  child-smile  from  her  lips,  which  seemed 

as  if  it  might 
Be  still  kept  holy  from  the  world  to  childhood  still  iu 

sight — 

*  Her  lyric  on  the  polar  star,  came  home  with  her  latest  papers. 


CROWNED     4ND     WEDDED.  315 

To  erase  it  with  a  solemn  vow — a  princely  vow — to 
rule ; 

A  priestly  vow— to  rule  by  grace  of  God  the  pitiful ; 

A  very  godlike  vow — to  rule  in  riglit  and  righteous- 
ness, 

And  with  tlie  law  and  for  the  land !— so  God  the 
vower  bless ! 

The  minster  was  alight  that  day,  but  not  witli  fire,  I 

ween, 
And  long-drawn  glitterings  swept  adown  tliat  mighty 

aisled  scene. 
The  priests  stood  stoled  in  their  pomp,  the  sworded 

chiefs  in  theirs, 
And  so,  the  collared  knights,  and  so,  the  civil  minis- 
ters. 
And  so,  the  waiting  lords  and  dames — and  little  pages 

best 
At  holding  trains — and  legates  so,  from  countries  east 

and  west. 
So,  alien  princes,  native  peers,  and  higli-born  ladies 

bright, 
Along  Avhose  brows  the  Q.ueen's,  new  crowned,  flashed 

coronets  to  light. 
And  so,  the  people  at  the  gates,  with  priestly  hands 

on  high, 
Which  bring  the  first  anointing  to  all  legal  majesty. 
And  so  the  Dead — who  lie  in  rows  beneath  the  minster 

floor, 
There,  verily  an  awful  state  mai?itaining  evermore; 
The  statesman  whose  clean  palm  will  kiss  no  bride 

wliate'er  it  be. 
Tlie  courtier  who,  for  no  fair  queen,  will  rise  up  to  his 

knee. 
The  court-dame  who,  for  no  court-tire,  will  leave  her 

shroud  behind. 
The  laureate  who  no  courtlier  rhyme  than  "dust  to 

dust"  can  find. 
The  kings  and  queens  who  having  made  that  voTi-  and 

worn  that  crown, 
Descended    unto    lower    thrones    and     dtirker,    deep 

adown  ! 
Dieu  et  won  droit — what  is't  to  them  ? — what  meaning 

can  it  have  ? — 
The  King  of  kings,  the  right  of  death — God's  judg 

ment  and  the  grave. 


316  CROWNED     AND     WEDDED 

And  when  betwixt  the  quick  and  dead,  the  3'oung  fair 

queen  had  vowed, 
The  living  shouted  "May  she  live!  Victoria,  live!" 

aloud. 
And  as  the  loyal  shouts  went  up,  true  spirits  prayed 

between, 
"  The  blessings  happy  monarchs  have,   be  thine,   0 

crowned  queen !"' 

But  now  before  her  people's  face  she  bcndeth  her's 

anew, 
And   calls  them,  while   she  vows,   to  be  her  witness 

thereunto, 
She  vowed  to  rule,  and,  in  that  oath,  her  childhood 

put  away. 
She  doth  maintain  her  womanhood,  in  vowing  love  to- 
day. 
0,  lovely  lady  ! — let  her  vow  ! — such  lips  become  such 

vows, 
And  fairer  goeth  bridal  wreath  than  crown  with  vernal 

brows. 
0,  lovely  lady  ! — let  her  vow  1  yea,   let  her  vow  to 

love  ! — 
And  though  she  be  no  less   a  queen — with  purples 

hung  above, 
The  pageant  of  a  court  behind,  the  roj-al  kin  around, 
And  woven  gold  to  catch  her  looks  turned  maidenly 

to  ground, 
Yet  may  the  bride-veil  hide  from  her  a  little  of  that 

state, 
While  loving  hopes,  for  retinues,  about  her  sweetness 

wait. 
She  vows  to  love  who  vowed  to  rule — (the  chosen  at 

her  side) 
Let  none  say,  God  preserve  the  queen  ! — but  rather, 

Bless  the  bride  ! 
None  blow  the  trump,  none  bend  the  knee,  UDue  violate 

the  dream 
Wherein  no  monarch  but  a  wife,  she  to  herself  may 

seem. 
Or  if  ye  sa3%  Preserve  the  queen ! — oh,  breathe  it  in- 
ward low — 
She  is  a  woman,   and  beloved! — and  'ti;?  enough  but 

so. 
Count  it  enough,  thou  noble  prince,  who  tak'st  her  by 

the  hand. 
And  claimest  for  thy  lady-love,  our  lady  of  the  land  1 


CROWNED     AND      BURIED.  317 

A.nd  since,  Prince  Albert,  men  have  called  tli^^  spirit 
high  and  rare. 

And  true  to  truth  and  brave  for  truth,  as  some  at 
Augsburg  were — 

We  charge  thee  by  thj'  lofty  thoughts,  and  by  thy 
poet-mind 

Which  not  b}'-  glory  and  degree  takes  measure  of  man- 
kind, 

Esteem  that  wedded  hand  less  dear  for  sceptre  than 
for  ring, 

A^nd  hold  her  uncrowned  womanhood  to  be  the  ro3-al 
thing. 

And  now,  upon  our  queen's  last  vow,  what  blessings 

shall  we  pray  ? 
None,  straitened  to  a  shallow  crown,  will  suit  our  lips 

to-day. 
Behold,  they  must  be  free  as  love — the}-  must  be  broad 

as  free, 
Even  to  the  borders   of  heaven's   light  and    earth's 

hnmanit3\ 
Long  live  she  ! — send  up  lo^'al  shouts — and  true  hearts 

pray  between — 
"The    blessings   happy  peasants  have,    be  thine,    0 

crowned  queen'" 


CROWNED   AND   BURIED. 

Napoleon  ! — j-ears  ago,  and  that  great  word 
Compact  of  human  breath  in  hate  and  dread 
And  exultation,  skied  us  overhead — 
An  atmosphere  whose  lightning  Avas  the  sword 
Scathing  the  cedars  of  the  world — drawn  down 
In  burnings,  b^'  the  metal  of  a  crown. 

Napoleon !  nations,  while  the}'  cursed  that  name 
Shook  at  their  own  curse  ;  and  wdiile  others  bore 
Its  sound,  as  of  a  trumi:)et,  on  before, 
Brass-fronted  legions  justified  its  fame  ; 
And  dying  men,  on  trampled  battle-sods. 
Near  their  last  silence,  uttered  it  for  God's. 
27* 


olS  CROWNED      AND      BURIED. 

Napo'eon  !  sages,  with  high  foreheads  drooped, 
Did  use  it  for  a  problem:  children  small 
Leapt  up  to  greet  it,  as  at  manhood's  call : 
Priests  blessed  it  from  their  altars  overstooped 
By  meek-ej'ed  Christs — and  widows  nith  a  moan 
Spake  it,  when  questioned  why  thoy  sate  alone. 

That  name  consumed  the  silence  of  the  snows 
In  Alpine  keeping,  holy  and  cloud-hid. 
The  mimic  eagles  dared  what  Nature's  did, 
And  over-rushed  her  mountainous  repose 
In  search  of  eyries ;  and  the  Egyptian  river 
Mingled  the  same  word  with  its  grand  "  For  ever." 

That  name  was  shouted  near  the  pyramidal 
Nilotic  tombs,  whose  mummied  habitants. 
Packed  to  humanity's  significance, 
Motioned  it  back  with  stillness  !  shouts  as  idle 
As  hireling  artists'  work  of  myrrh  and  spice 
Which  svvatherl  last  glories  round  the  Ptolemies. 

The  world's  face  changed  to  hear  it.     Kingly  men 
Came  down  in  chidden  babes'  bewilderment 
From  autocratic  places,  each  content 
AVith  sprinkled  ashes  for  anointing. — Then 
The  people  lauglied,  or  wondered  for  the  nonce, 
To  see  one  throne  a  composite  of  thrones. 

Napoleon  !  even  the  torrid  vastitude 

Of  India  felt  in  throbbings  of  the  air 

That  name  which  scattered  by  disastrous  blare 

All  Europe's  bound-lines — drawn  afresh  in  blood. 

Napoleon — from  the  Russias,  west  to  Spain  ! 

And  Austria  trembled — till  he  heard  her  chain. 

And  Germany  was  'ware  ;  and  Italy 
Oblivious  of  old  fames — her  laurel  locked, 
High-ghosted  CjEsars  passing  uninvoked — 
Did  crumble  her  own  ruins  with  her  knee, 
To  serve  a  newer. — A3' !  but  Frenchmen  cast 
A  future  from  them  nobler  than  her  past. 

For,  veril}',  though  France  augustly  rose 

With  that  raised  name,  and  did  assume  by  such 

The  purple  of  the  world,  none  gave  so  much 

As  she,  in  purchase — to  speak  plain,  in  loss — 

Whose  hands,  toward  freedom  stretched,  dropped  par- 

al^'zed 
To  wield  a  sword  or  fit  an  undersized 


CROWNED      AND      BURIED.  319 

Kiiig'si  crown  to  a  great  man's   bead.     And  though 

alo  ng 
Her  Paris'  streets,  did  float  on  frequent  streams 
Of  triumph,  pictured  or  emraarbled  dreams 
Dreamt  right  by  genius  in  a  worUl  gone  wrong- 
No  dream,  of  all  so  won,  was  fair  to  see 
As  the  lost  vision  of  her  liberty. 

Napoleon  1  'twas  a  high  name  lifted  high  I 

It  met  at  last  God's  thunder  sent  to  clear 

Our  compassing  and  covering  atmosphere 

And  open  a  clear  sight  beyond  the  sky 

Of  supreme  empire  ;  this  of  earth's  was  done — 

And  kings  crept  out  again  to  feel  the  sun. 

The  kings  crept  out — the  people  sate  at  home, 

And  finding  the  long-invocated  peace 

(A  pall  embroidered  with  worn  images 

Of  rights  divine)  too  scant  to  cover  doom 

Such  as  they  suffered — cursed  the  corn  that  grew 

Rankly,  to  bitter  bread,  on  Waterloo. 

A  deep  gloom  centred  in  the  deep  repose. 
The  nations  stood  up  mute  to  count  their  dead. 
And  he  who  owned  the  Name  which  vibrated 
Througli  silence — trusting  to  his  noblest  foes 
When  earth  was  all  too  grey  for  chivalry, 
Died  of  their  mercies  'mid  the  desert  sea. 

O  wild  St.  Helen  !  very  still  she  kept  him, 
With  a  green  willow  for  all  pvramid — 
Which  stirred  a  little  if  the  iow  wind  did, 
A  little  more,  if  pilgrims  overwept  him, 
Disparting  the  little  boughs  to  see  the  clay 
Which  seemed  to  cover  his  for  judgment-day. 

Nay,  not  so  long  ! — France  kept  her  old  affection 

As  deeply  as  the  sepulchre  the  corse, 

Until,  dilated  b}'  such  love's  remorse 

To  a  new  angel  of  the  resurrection. 

She  cried,  "Behold,  thou  Kngland  !  I  would  have 

The  dead  whereof  thou  wottest,  from  that  grave." 

And  England  answered  in  the  courtesy 
Which,  ancient  foes  turned  lovers,  may  befit — 
"  Take  back  thy  dead  !  and  when  thou  buriest  it, 
Thi'ow  in  all  former  strifes  'twixt  thee  and  me." 
Amen,  mine  England  !  'tis  a  courteous  claim — 
But  ask  a  little  room  too  .  .  .  for  thy  shame  ! 


820  CROWNED      AND      BURIED. 

Because  it  was  not  well,  it  was  not  well, 

Nor  tuneful  with  thy  lofty-chanted  part 

Among  the  Oceanides — that  Heart 

To  bind  and  bare  and  vex  with  vulture  fell. 

I  would,  ni}'  noble  England  !  men  might  seek 

All  crimson  stains  upon  thy  breast — not  cheek! 

I  would  that  hostile  fleets  had  scarred  Torbay, 

Instead  of  the  Ions  ship  which  waited  moored 

Until  thy  princely  purpose  was  assured, 

Then  left  a  shadow,  not  to  pass  awa^y — 

Not  for  to-night's  moon,  nor  to-morrow's  sun  ! 

Green  watching  hdls,  3'e  witnessed  what  was  donel* 

But  since  it  was  done — in  sepulchral  dust 

We  fain  would  pay  l)ack  something  of  our  debt 

To  France,  if  not  to  honor,  and  forget 

How  through  much  fear  we  falsified  tlie  trust 

Of  a  fallen  foe  and  exile. — We  return 

Orestes  to  Electra  ...  in  his  urn. 

A  little  urn — a  little  dust  inside, 

Which  once  outbalanced  the  large  earth,  albeit 

To-day  a  four-years  child  might  carry  it' 

Sleek-browed  and  smiling,  "Let  the  l)urden  'bide!" 

Orestes  to  Electra! — 0  fair  town 

Of  Paris,  how  the  wild  tears  will  run  down 

And  run  back  in  the  chariot-marks  of  time, 

When  all  the  people  shall  come  foith  to  meet 

The  passive  victor,  death-still  in  the  street 

He  rode  tiirough  'mid  the  shouting  and  bell-chime 

And  martial  music,  under  eagles  which 

Dyed  their  rapacious  beaks  at  Austerlitz. 

Napoleon  !  he  hath  come  again — borne  home 

Upon  the  popular  ebbing  heart — a  sea 

Which  gathei's  its  own  wrecks  perpetuall3% 

Majesticall}^  moaning.      Give  him  room! — 

lloom  for  the  dead  in  Paris !  welcome  solemn 

And  grave-deep,  'neath  the  cannon-moulded  columi.  !| 

There,  weapon  spent  and  warrior  spent  may  rest 

From  roar  of  fields — provided  Jupiter 

Dare  trust  Saturnus  to  lie  down  so  near 

His  bolts !  and  this  he  may.     For,  dispossessed 

*  "Written  at  Torquay. 

t  It  was  the  first  intention  to  bury  him  under  the  column. 


TO     PLUSn,     MY     DOG.  321 

Of  any  godship  lies  the  godlike  arm — • 

The  goat,  Jove  sucked,  as  likely  to  do  harm. 

And  yet  .  .  .  Napoleon  ! — the  recovered  name 
Shakes  the  old  casements  of  the  world!  and  we 
Look  out  upon  the  passing  pageantry, 
Attesting  that  the  Dead  makes  good  his  claim 
To  a  French  grave — another  kingdom  won. 
The  last,  of  few  spans — by  Napoleon. 

Blood  fell  like  dew  beneath  his  sunrise — sooth ; 
But  glittered  dew-like  in  the  covenanted 
Meridian  light.     He  was  a  despot — granted  I 
But  the  aiiroj  of  his  autocratic  month 
Said  yea  i'  the  people's  French  ;  he  magnified 
The  image  of  the  freedom  lie  denied. 

And  if  they  asked  for  rights,  he  made  reply 

"Ye  have  my  glor}- !" — and  so,  drawing  round  them 

His  ample  purple,  glorified  and  bound  them 

In  an  embrace  that  seemed  identity. 

He  ruled  them  like  a  t^'rant — true  !  but  none 

Were  ruled  like  slaves  :  each  felt  Napoleon. 

I  do  not  praise  this  man  :  the  man  was  flawed 

For  Adam — much  more,  Christ  I — his  knee  unbent, 

His  hand  unclean,  his  aspiration  pent 

Within  a  sword-sweep — pshaw  ! — but  since  he  had 

The  genius  to  be  loved,  why  let  him  have 

The  justice  to  be  honored  in  his  grave. 

I  think  this  nation's  tears  thus  poured  together, 

Better  than  shouts.     I  think  this  funeral 

Grander  than  crownings,  though  a  Pope  bless  all. 

I  think  this  grave  stronger  than  thrones.     But  whether 

The  crowned  Napoleon  or  the  buried  clay 

Be  worthier,  I  discern  not.     Angels  may. 


TO  FLUSH,  MY  DOG. 

Loving  friend,  the  gift  of  one 
Who  her  own  true  faith  has  run, 
V 


322  TO     FLUSH,      MY     DOG 

Through  thy  lower  nature,* 
Be  my  henedictiou  said 
With  my  hand  upon  thy  head, 

Gentle  fellow-creature  ! 

Like  a  lady's  ringlets  brown, 
Flow  thy  silken  ears  adowu 

Either  side  demurel}' 
Of  thy  silver-suited  breast, 
Shining  out  from  all  the  rest 

Of  thy  body  purely. 

Darkly  brown  thy  body  is. 
Till  the  sunshine  striking  this 

Alchemise  its  dulness, 
When  the  sleek  curls  manifold 
Flash  all  over  into  gold, 

With  a  burnished  fulness. 

Underneath  my  stroking  hand. 
Startled  eyes  of  hazel  bland 

Kindling,  growing  larger. 
Up  thou  leapest  with  a  spring, 
Full  of  prank  and  curveting. 

Leaping  like  a  charger. 

Leap  I  thy  broad  tail  waves  a  light, 
Leap  !  thy  slender  feet  are  bright. 

Canopied  in  fringes. 
Leap — those  tasselled  ears  of  thine 
Flicker  strangely,  fair  and  fine, 

Down  their  golden  inches. 

Yet,  my  prett}',  sportive  friend, 
Little  is  't  to  such  an  end 

That  I  praise  thy  rareness ! 
Other  dogs  may  be  thy  peers 
Hapl3^  in  these  drooping  ears. 

And  this  glossy  fairness. 

But  of  thee  it  shall  be  said, 
This  dog  watched  beside  a  i)ed 

•  This  dog  was  the  gift  of  my  dear  and  admired  friend.  Miss 
Mitford,  and  belongs  to  the  beautiful  race  she  has  rendered  cele- 
brated among  English  and  American  readers.  The  Flushes  have 
their  laurels  aa  well  as  the  Caesars — the  chief  difference  (at  least 
the  very  head  and  front  of  it)  consisting,  perhaps  in  the  bald 
head  of  the  latter  under  the  crown. — 1844. 


TO      FLUSH,      .MY      DOG.  323 

T>ay  and  iiiglit  uinve.iry — 
Watched  within  a  cnrtained  room, 
Whore  no  sunbeam  brake  the  gloom 

Round  the  sick  and  dreary. 

Roses  gathered  for  a  vase, 
In  that  chamber  died  apace, 

Beam  and  breeze  resigning. 
This  dog  only,  waited  on. 
Knowing  that  when  light  is  gone 

Love  remains  for  shining. 

Other  dogs  in  thymy  dew 

Tracked  the  hares  and  followed  through 

Sunn^^  moor  or  meadow. 
This  dog  only,  crept  and  crept 
Next  a  languid  cheek  that  slept, 

Sharing  in  the  shadow. 

Other  dogs  of  loj-al  cheer 
Bounded  at  the  whistle  clear. 

Up  the  wood  side  hieing. 
This  dog  only,  watched  in  reach 
Of  a  faintly  uttered  speech. 

Or  a  louder  sio-hinir. 

And  if  one  or  two  quick  tears 
Dropped  upon  his  glossy  ears, 

Or  a  sigh  came  double — ■ 
Up  he  sprang  in  eager  haste, 
Fawning,  fondling,  breathing  fast, 

In  a  tender  trouble. 

And  this  dog  was  satisfied 

If  a  pale  thin  hand  would  glide 

Down  his  dewlaps  sloping — 
W/iich  he  pushed  his  nose  within", 
After,  phitforming  his  chin 

On  the  palm  left  open. 

This  dog,  if  a  friendly  voice 
Call  him  now  to  blither  choice 

Than  such  chamber-keeping, 
"  Come  out !  "  praying  from  the  door — 
Presseth  backward  as  before, 

Up  against  me  leaping. 

Therefore  to  this  dog  will  I, 
Teuderly  not  scornfully, 


324  TO     FLUSH,     MY     DOO 

Render  praise  and  favour  : 
With  my  band  upon  his  head. 
Is  ray  benediction  said. 

Therefore,  and  forever. 

And  because  he  loA'es  me  sa. 
Better  than  his  kind  will  do 

Often,  man  or  woman, 
Give  I  back  more  love  again 
Than  dogs  often  take  of  men. 

Leaning  from  my  Human. 

Blessings  on  thee,  dog  of  mine. 
Pretty  collars  make  thee  fine, 

Sugared  milk  make  fat  thee  I 
Pleasures  Avag  on  in  thy  tail, 
Hands  of  gentle  motion  furl 

Nevermore,  to  pat  thee  ! 

Downy  pillow  take  thy  head, 
Silken  coverlid  bedstead, 

Sunshine  helj)  thy  sleeping  I 
No  fl3''s  buzzing  wake  thee  up. 
No  man  break  thy  purple  cup, 

Set  for  drinking  deep  in. 

Whiskered  cats  arointed  flee, 
Sturdy  stopi>ers  keep  from  thee 

Cologne  distillations; 
Nuts  lie  in  thy  path  for  stones. 
And  thy  feast-day  macaroons 

Turn  to  daily  rations  ! 

Mock  I  thee,  in  wishing  weal  ? — 
Tears  are  in  my  eyes  to  feel 

Thou  art  made  so  straightly, 
Blessing  needs  must  straighten  too- 
Little  canst  thou  joj'^  or  do. 

Thou  who  lovest  greatly. 

Yet  be  blessed  to  the  height 
Of  all  good  and  all  delight 

Pervious  to  thy  nature  ; 
Onlj'  loved  beyond  that  line. 
With  a  love  that  answers  thine, 

Loving  fellow-creature ! 


THE      lESERTED     GARDEN. 


325 


THE   DESERTED    GARDEN. 

I  MIND  rac  ill  the  da3's  departed, 
How  often  underneath  the  sun 
With  childish  bounds  I  used  to  run 
To  a  garden  long  deserted. 

The  beds  and  walks  were  vanished  quite; 
And  whereso'er  had  struck  the  spade, 
The  greenest  grasses  Nature  laid, 
To  siinctify  her  right. 

I  called  the  place  mj^  wilderness, 
For  no  one  entered  there  but  I. 
The  sheep  looked  in,  the  grass  to  espy, 
And  passed  it  iie'ertheless. 

The  trees  were  interwoven  wild, 
And  spread  their  boughs  eiioiigh  about 
To  keep  both  sheep  and  shepherd  out, 
But  not  a  happy  child. 

Adventurous  joy  it  was  for  me! 
I  crept  lieneath  the  boughs,  and  found 
A  circle  smooth  of  mossj-  ground 
Beneath  a  poplar  tree. 

Old  garden  rose-trees  hedged  it  in, 
Bedropt  with  roses  waxen-white 
Well  satisfied  with  dew  and  light 
And  careless  to  be  seen. 

Long  years  ago  it  might  befall. 
When  all  the  garden  flowers  were  trim, 
The  grave  old  gardener  prided  him 
On  these  the  most  of  all. 

Some  lady,  stately  overmuch. 
Here  moving  witli  a  silken  noise, 
Has  blushe(l  beside  them  at  the  voice 
That  likened  her  to  such. 

And  these,  to  make  a  diadem. 
She  often  may  have  plucked  and  twined, 
Half-smiling  as  it  came  to  mind 
That  few  would  look  at  litem. 
28 


326  THE     DESERTED     GARDEN. 

Oh,  little  thought  that  lady  proud, 
A  child  would  watch  her  fair  white  rose, 
When  buried  lay  her  whiter  brows, 
And  silk  was  changed  for  shroud  ! — 

Nor  thought  that  gardener,  (full  of  scorns 
For  men  unlearned  and  simple  phrase,) 
A  child  would  bring  it  all  its  praise, 
^y  creeping  thi'ough  the  thorns  1 

To  me  upon  m^'  low  moss  seat, 
Though  never  a  dream  the  roses  sent 
Of  science  or  love's  compliment, 
I  ween  they  smelt  as  sweet. 

It  did  not  move  my  grief  to  see 
The  trace  of  human  step  departed. 
Because  the  garden  was  deserted, 
The  blither  place  for  me  I 

Friends,  blame  me  not  1  a  narrow  ken. 
Has  childhood  'twixt  the  sun  and  sward: 
We  draw  tlie  moral  afterward — 
We  feel  the  gladness  then. 

And  gladdest  hours  for  me  did  glide 
In  silence  at  the  rose-tree  wall. 
A  thrush  made  gladness  musical 
Upon  the  other  side. 

Nor  he  nor  I  did  e'er  incline 
To  peck  or  pluck  the  blossoms  white. 
How  should  I  know  but  roses  might 
Lead  lives  as  glad  as  mine  ? 

To  make  m}'^  hermit-home  complete, 
I  brought  clear  water  from  the  spring 
Praised  in  its  own  low  murmuring — 
And  cresses  glossy  wet. 

And  so,  I  thought,  my  likeness  grew 
(Without  the  melancholy  tale) 
To  "gentle  hermit  of  the  dale," 
And  Angelina  too. 

For  oft  I  read  within  my  nook 
Such  minstrel  stories ;  till  the  breefee 
Made  sounds  poetic  in  the  trees — 
And  then  I  shut  the  book. 


THE     DESERTED     GARDEN.  321 

ir  I  shut  this  wherein  I  write 
I  hear  no  more  the  wind  athwart 
Those  trees — nor  feel  that  childish  heart 
Delighting  in  delight. 

My  childhood  from  m}'  life  is  parted, 
M3'  footstep  from  the  moss  which  drew  y 

Its  fairy  circle  round  :  anew 
The  garden  is  deserted. 

Another  thrush  may  there  rehearse 
The  madriii:als  whi(;h  sweetest  are ; 
No  more  for  me  ! — mj'self  afar 
Do  sing  a  sadder  verse. 

Ah  me,  ah  me !  when  erst  I  lay 
In  that  child's-nest  so  greenly  wrought, 
I  laughed  unto  raj'self  and  thought 
"The  time  will  pass  away." 

And  still  I  laughed,  and  did  not  fear 
But  that,  whene'er  was  passed  away 
The  childish  time,  some  happier  play 
My  womanhood  would  cheer. 

I  knew  the  time  would  pass  away, 
And  yet,  beside  the  rose-tree  wall. 
Dear  God,  how  seldom,  if  at  all. 
Did  I  look  up  to  pray  ! 

The  time  is  j^ast ; — and  now  that  grows 
The  C3q3ress  high  among  the  trees, 
And  I  behold  white  sepulchres 
As  well  as  the  white  rose — 

When  graver,  meeker  thoughts  are  giveu, 
And  I  have  learnt  to  lift  my  face. 
Reminded  how  earth's  greenest  place 
The  color  draws  from  heaven — 

It  something  saith  for  earthly  pain, 
But  more  for  Heavenly  i^romise  free 
That  I  who  was,  would  shrink  to  be 
That  happy  child  again. 


32&  MY     DOVES. 

MY   DOVES. 

0  Wieshit !  Du  red'st  wie  eine  Taube  ! — Goethk. 

My  little  doves  have  left  a  nest 

Upon  an  Indian  tree, 
Whose  leaves  fantastic  take  their  rest 

Or  motion  from  the  sea  ; 
For,  ever  there,  the  sea-winds  go 
With  sunlit  paces  to  and  fro. 

The  tropic  flowers  looked  up  to  it, 
The  tropic  stars  looked  down, 

And  there  mj-  little  doves  did  sit, 
With  feathers  soft!}'  brown. 

And  glittering  e^-es  that  showed  their  right 

To  general  Katiire's  deep  delight. 

And  God  them  taught,  at  every  close 
Of  murmuring  waves  be3'0nd, 

And  green  leaves  round  to  interpose 
Their  choral  voices  fond. 

Interpreting  that  love  must  be 

The  meaning  of  the  earth  and  sea. 

Fit  ministers  1     Of  living  loves. 
Theirs  hath  the  calmest  fashion, 

Their  living  voice  the  likest  moves 
To  lifeless  intonation, 

The  lovely  monotone  of  springs 

And  winds,  and  such  insensate  things. 

My  little  doves  Avere  ta'en  away 
From  that  glad  nest  of  theirs, 

Across  an  ocean  rolling  grej', 
And  tempest-clouded  airs. 

My  little  doves — who  lately  knew 

The  sky  and  wave  by  warmth  and  blue  I 

And  now,  within  the  city  prison, 

In  mist  and  chillness  pent, 
With  sudden  upward  look  they  listen 

For  sounds  of  past  content — • 
For  lapse  of  water,  swell  of  breeze, 
Or  nut-fruit  falling  from  the  trees. 


yiY    DOVES.  321 

The  stir  without  the  glow  of  passion, 

Tiie  triumph  of  the  mart, 
The  gold  and  silver  as  ihey  clash  on 

Man's  cold  metallic  heart — 
The  roar  of  wheels,  the  cry  for  bread 
Those  only  sounds  are  heard  instead. 

Yet  still,  as  on  my  human  hand 

Their  fearless  heads  they  lean, 
And  almost  seem  to  understand 

What  human  musings  mean, 
(Their  eyes,  with  sucii  a  plaintive  shine, 
Are  fastened  upwardl^'^  to  mine  1) 

Soft  falls  their  chant  as  on  the  nest 

Beneath  the  sunny  zone  ; 
For  love  that  stirred  it  in  their  breast 

Has  not  aweary  grown, 
And  'neath  the  city's  shade  can  keep 
The  well  of  music  clear  and  deep. 

And  love  that  keeps  the  music,  fills 

With  pastoral  memories. 
All  echoing  from  out  the  hills. 

All  droppings  from  the  skies, 
All  Sowings  from  the  wave  and  wind. 
Remembered  in  their  chant,  I  find. 

So  teach  ye  me  the  wisest  part, 

My  little  doves  1  to  move 
Along  the  citj'-ways  with  heart 

Assured  by  hol^^  love, 
And  vocal  with  such  songs  as  own 
A  fountain  to  the  world  unknown. 

'Twas  hard  to  sing  by  Babel's  stream — 

More  hard,  in  Babel's  street  I 
But  if  the  soulless  creatures  deem 

Their  music  not  unmeet — 
For  sunless  walls — let  us  begin. 
Who  wear  immortal  wings  within  I 

To  me,  fair  memories  belong 

Of  scenes  that  used  to  bless. 
For  no  regret,  but  present  song, 

And  lasting  thankfulness, 
And  very  soon  to  break  away. 
Like  types,  in  purer  things  than  they. 
28* 


330  HECTOR      IN     THE      GABDE:^ 

I  will  have  hopes  that  cannot  fade, 
For  flowers  the  valley  3'ields  ! 

I  will  have  humble  thoughts  instead 
Of  silent,  dewy  fields  1 

My  spirit  and  m^^  God  shall  be 

My  sea-ward  hill,  mj'^  boundless  sea. 


HECTOR    IN   THE    GARDEN. 

Nine  j^ears  old  !     The  first  of  any 
Seem  the  happiest  years  that  come. 
Yet  when  /  was  nine,  I  said 
No  such  word  ! — 1  thought  instead 

That  the  Greeks  had  used  as  many 
In  besieging  Ilium. 

Nine  green  j'ears  had  scarcely  brought  me 

To  my  childhood's  haunted  spring. 

I  had  life,  like  flowers  and  bees 

In  betwixt  the  country  trees, 
And  the  sun  the  pleasure  taught  me 

Which  he  teacheth  everything.     • 

If  the  rain  fell,  there  was  sorrow, 

Little  head  leant  on  the  pane. 

Little  finger  drawing  down  it 

Tlie  long  trailing  drops  u23on  it. 
And  the  "  Rain,  rain,  come  to-morrow," 

Said  for  charm  against  the  rain. 

Such  a  charm  was  right  Canidian 
Though  you  meet  it  with  a  jeer ! 
If  I  said  it  long  enough, 
Then  the  rain  hummed  dimly  oflT, 

And  the  thrush  with  his  pure  Lydiau 
Was  left  only  to  the  ear  ; 

And  the  sun  and  I  together 

Went  a-rushing  out  of  doors  1 

We,  our  tender  spirits,  drew 

Over  hill  and  dale  in  view. 
Glimmering  hither,  gUinmering  thither, 

lu  the  footsteps  of  the  showers. 


HECTOR     IN      THE     GARDEN. 


33] 


Uiirlerneatb  the  chestnuts  dripping, 
Through  tlie  grasses  wet  and  fail-, 
Straight  I  sought  m}'  garden-ground, 
With  the  laurel  on  the  mound, 

Aud  the  pear-tree  over-sweeping 
A  side-shadow  of  sreen  air. 


In  the  garden  lay  supinely 

A  huge  giant  wrought  of  spade ! 
Arms  and  legs  were  stretched  at  length 
In  a  passive  giant  strength — 

The  fine  meadow  turf,  cut  finely, 
Eound  them  laid  and  interlaid. 

Call  him  Hector,  son  of  Priam  I 

Such  his  title  and  degree. 

With  my  rake  I  smoothed  his  brow, 

Both  his  cheeks  I  weeded  through, 
But  a  rhymer  such  as  I  am, 

Scarce  can  sing  his  dignity. 

Eyes  of  gentianellas  azure, 

Staring,  winking  at  the  skies.' 

Nose  of  gillyflowers  and  box. 

Scented  grasses  put  for  locks. 
Which  a  little  breeze,  at  pleasure, 

Set  a-waving  round  his  eyes. 

■Brazen  helm  of  dafifodillies. 

With  a  glitter  toward  the  light. 
Purple  violets  for  the  mouth, 
Breathing  perfumes  west  and  south; 

And  a  sword  of  flashing  lilies, 
Holden  ready  for  the  fight. 

And  a  breast-plate  made  of  daisies, 

Closely  fitting,  leaf  on  leaf. 

Periwinkles  interlaced 

Drawn  for  belt  about  the  waist; 
While  the  brown  bees,  humming  praises. 

Shot  their  arrows  round  the  chief. 

And  who  knows,  (I  sometimes  wondered,) 

If  the  disembodied  soul 

Of  old  Hector,  once  of  Tro}', 

Might  not  take  a  dreary  joy 
Here  to  enter — if  it  thunclered. 

Boiling  up  the  thunder-roll  ? 


/ 


i 


332  HECTOR     IN      THE     OaHDEN. 

Rolling  this  way  from  Troy-ruiu, 

In  this  body  rude  and  rife 

Just  to  enter,  and  take  rest 

'Neath  the  daisies  of  the  breast — 
They,  with  tender  roots,  renewing 

His  heroic  heart  to  life  ? 

Who  could  know  ?     I  sometimes  started 

At  a  motion  or  a  sound  I 

Did  his  mouth  siDeak — naming  Troy, 

With  an  otorotorov  ? 
Did  the  pulse  of  the  Strong-hearted 

Make  the  daisies  tremble-round  ? 

It  was  hard  to  answer,  often : 
But  the  birds  sang  in  the  tree — 
But  the  little  birds  sang  bold 
In  the  pear-tree  green  and  old, 

And  my  terror  seemed  to  soften 
Through  the  courage  of  their  glee. 

Oh,  the  birds,  the  tree,  the  ruddy 

And  white  blossoms,  sleek  with  rain! 

Oh,  my  garden,  rich  with  pansies  ! 

Oh,  my  childhood's  bright  romances 
All  revive,  like  Hector's  body, 

And  I  see  them  stir  again  1 

And  despite  life's  changes — chances, 
And  despite  the  death-bell's  toll. 
They  press  on  me  in  full  seeming ! 
Help,  some  angel!  stay  this  dreaming  I 

As  the  birds  sang  in  the  branches, 

Sing  G(td's  patience  through  my  soul  I 

That  no  dreamer,  no  neglecter 
Of  the  present's  work  unsped, 
I  may  wake  up  and  be  doing. 
Life's  heroic  ends  pursuing. 
Though  my  past  is  dead  as  Hector, 
And  though  Hector  is  twice  dead. 


SLEEriNQ     ANT)     M'ATCIIINO.  332 


SLEEPING  AND    WATCHING. 

Sleep  on,  babj%  on  the  floor, 

Tired  of  all  the  playing! 
Sleep  with  smile  ti)e  sweeter  for 

That,  3^ou  dropped  away  in  ! 
On  your  curls'  full  roundness,  stand 

Golden  lights  serenelj'. 
One  cheek,  pushed  out  by  the  hand, 

Folds  the  dimple  inh-. 
Little  head  and  little  foot 

Heavy  laid  for  pleasur2, 
Underneath  the  lids  half  shut. 

Slants  the  shining  azure — 
Open-soul  in  noonday  sun, 

So,  yon  lie  and  slumber  ! 
Nothing  evil  having  done, 

Nothing  can  encumber. 

I,  who  cannot  sleep  as  Avell, 

Shall  1  sigh  to  view  you  ? 
Or  sigh  further  to  foretell 

All  tlu't  may  undo  _you  ? 
Nay,  keep  smiling,  little  child, 

Ere  the  sorrow  neareth. 
I  will  smile  too  !  patience  mild 

Pleasure's  token  weareth. 
Na}',  keep  sleeping  before  loss. 

I  shall  sleep,  though  losing ! 
As  b}'  cradle,  so  by  cross. 

Sure  is  the  reposing. 

And  God  knows  who  sees  us  twain, 

Child  at  childish  leisure, 
I  am  near  as  tired  of  pain 

As  3^ou  seem  of  pleasure. 
Very  soon  too,  by  His  grace 

Gently  wrapt  around  me, 
Shall  I  show  as  calm  a  face, 

Shall  I  sleep  as  soundl3% 
Differing  in  this,  that  you 

Clasp  your  playthings,  sleeping, 
While  my  hand  shall  drop  the  few 

Given  to  my  keeping. 


334  SOUNDS. 

Diirering  in  this,  that  I 

Sleeping  shall  be  colder, 
And  in  M'aking  presently, 

Brighter  to  beholder. 
Differing  in  this  beside 

(Sleeper,  have  you  heard  me? 
Do  you  move,  and  open  wide 

Eves  of  wonder  toward  me?)- 
That  while  you,  I  thus  recall 

From  your  sleep,  I  solely. 
Me  from  mine  an  angel  shall, 

With  reveillie  holy. 


SOUNDS. 

JDSCHYLUS. 

Hearken,  hearken ! 
The  rapid  river  carrieth 
Many  noises  underneath 

The  hoary  ocean : 
Teaching  his  solemnity 
Sounds  of  inland  life  and  glee.' 
Learnt  beside  the  waving  tree, 
When  the  winds  in  summer  prank 

Toss  the  shades  from  bank  to  bank, 
And  the  quick  rains,  in  emotion 
Which  rather  gladdens  earth  than  giievsa,, 
Connt  and  vistbly  rehearse 
The  pulses  of  the  universe 
Upon  the  summer  leaves — 
Learnt  among  the  lilies  straight. 
When  they  bow  them  to  tlie  weight 
Of  many  bees  whose  hidden  lium 
Seemeth  from  themselves  to  come— 
Learnt  among  the  grasses  green, 
Where  the  rustling  mice  are  seen 
By  the  gleaming,  as  they  run. 
Of  their  quick  eyes  in  the  sun  ; 
And  lazy  sheep  are  browzing  through, 
With  their  nos-^s  trailed  in  dew  ; 


SOUNDS,  335 

And  the  squirrel  leaps  adown, 
Holding  fast  the  filbert  brown  ; 
And  the  lark,  with  more  of  mirth 
In  his  song  than  suits  the  earth, 
Droppeth  some  in  soaring  high, 
To  pour  the  rest  out  in  the  sky  ; 
While  the  woodland  doves,  apart 
In  the  copse's  leafy  heart. 
Solitary,  not  ascetic. 
Hidden  and  yet  vocal,  seen 
Joining,  in  a  lovely  psalm, 
Man's  despondence,  nature's  calm, 
Half  mystical  and  half  pathetic, 
Like  a  siglung  in  a  dream.* 
All  these  sounds  the  river  telleth, 
Softened  to  an  undertone 
Which  ever  and  anon  he  swelleth 
By  a  burden  of  his  own, 

In  the  ocean's  ear. 
Ay  !  and  Ocean  seems  to  hear 
With  an  inward  gentle  scorn, 
Smiling  to  his  caverns  worn. 

Hearken,  hearken  ! 
The  child  is  shouting  at  his  play 
Just  in  ♦^he  tramping  funeral's  wa3^ 
The  wifJow  moans  as  slie  turns  aside 
To  shun  the  face  of  the  blushing  bride, 
While  shaking  the  tower  of  the  ancient  church, 
The  marriage  bells  do  swing. 
And  in  the  shadow  of  the  porch 
An  idiot  sits,  with  his  lean  hands  full 
Of  hedgerow  flowers  and  a  poet's  skull, 
Laughing  loud  and  gibbering, 
Because  it  is  so  brown  a  thing, 

*  "  While  floating  up  briglit  forms  ideal, 
Jlistress,  or  friend,  around  me  stream  ; 

Half  sense-supplied,  and  half  unreal, 
Like  music  mingling  with  a  dream." 

John  Kenton. 

I  do  not  doubt  that  the  "  music"  of  the  two  concluding  lines 
mingled,  though  very  unconsciously,  with  my  own  "  dr:':im,"  and 
^•ave  their  form  and  pressure  to  tlie  above  distich.  The  ideas, 
however,  being  sufficiently  distinct,  I  am  satisfied  with  sending 
this  note  to  the  press  after  my  verses,  and  with  acknowledging 
another  obligation  to  the  valued  friend  to  whom  I  already  owe 
§0  many. — 1844 


8Jt6  SOUNDS. 

While  he  sticketh  the  gaudy  poppies  red 

In  and  out  the  senseless  head 

Where  all  sweet  fancies  grew  instead. 

And  you  may  hear,  at  the  self-same  time, 

Another  poet  who  reads  his  rh3'me, 

Low  as  a  brook  in  the  summer  air — • 

SaA'e  when  he  droppeth  his  voice  adown, 

To  dream  of  the  amaranthine  crown 

His  mortal  brows  shall  wear. 

And  a  baby  cries  with  a  feeble  sound 

'Neath  the  weary  weight  of  the  life  new-found. 

And  an  old  man  groan s-^with  his  testament 

Only  half-signed — for  the  life  that's  spent. 

And  lovers  twain  do  softly  sa}^ 

As  they  sit  on  a  grave,  "  For  aye,  for  aye." 

And  foemen  twain,  while  earth  their  mother 

Looks  greenly  upward,  curse  each  other. 

A  school-boy  drones  his  task,  with  looks 

Cast  over  the  page  to  the  elm-tree  rooks. 

A  lonel}'  student  cries  aloud 

Eureka  !  clasping  at  his  shroud. 

A  beldame's  age-cracked  voice  doth  sino- 

To  a  little  infant  slumbering. 

A  maid  forgotten  weeps  alone. 

Muffling  her  sobs  on  the  tr^-sting-stone. 

A  sick  man  wakes  at  his  own  mouth's  wail. 

A  gossip  coughs  in  her  thrice-told  tale. 

A  mutterintr  gamester  shakes  the  dice. 

A  reaper  foretells  good  luck  from  the  skies. 

A  monarch  vows  as  he  lifts  his  hands  to  them. 

A  patriot  leaving  his  native  land  to  them, 

Cries  to  the  world  against  perjui-ed  state 

A  priest  disserts  upon  linen  skirts. 

A  sinner  screams  for  one  hope  more. 

A  dancer's  feet  do  palpitate 

A  piper's  music  out  on  the  floor 

And  nigh  to  the  awful  Dead,  the  living 

Low  speech  and  stealthy  steps  are  giving, 

Because  he  cannot  hear  ! 

And  he  who  on  that  narrow  bier 

Has  room  enough,  is  closely  wound 

In  silence  piercing  more  than  sound. 

Hearken,  hearken  ! 
God  speaketh  to  thy  soul, 
Using  the  supreme  voice  which  doth  confound 


THE     CLAIM,  33( 

All  life  with  consciousness  of  Deity, 

All  senses  into  one — 
As  the  seer-saint  of  Patmos,  loving  John 

(For  whom  did  backward  roll 
Tlie  cloud-gate  of  the  future)  turned  to  see 
Tlie  Voice  which  spake.     It  speakcth  now, 
Through  the  regular  breath  of  the  calm  creation, 
Through  the  moan  of  the  creature's  desolation 
Striking,  and  in  its  stroke,  resembling 
The  memor}'  of  a  solemn  vow. 
Which  pierceth  the  din  of  a  festival 
To  one  in  the  midst — and  he  letteth  fall 
The  cup,  with  a  sudden  trembling. 

Hearken,  hearken! 

God  speaketh  in  thv  soul, 

Saying,  "  0  thou  that  movest 
With  feeble  steps  across  this  earth  of  mine, 
To  break  beside  the  fount  thy  golden  bowl 

And  sjnll  its  purple  wine — 
Look  up  to  heavcMi  and  see  how  like  a  scroti 
My  right  hand  hath  thine  immortality 
In  an  eternal  grasping !  thou,  that  lovest 
The  songful  birds  and  grasses  underfoot, 
And  also  what  change  mars  and  tombs  pollute— 
I  am  the  end  of  love  ! — give  love  to  3Ie  J 
O  thou  that  sinnest,  grace  doth  more  abound 
Than  all  thy  sin  !  sit  still  beneath  my  rood. 
And  count  the  droppings  of  my  victim-blood. 

And  seek  none  other  sound  !" 

Hearken,  hearken  ! 
Shall  we  hear  the  lapsing  river 
And  our  brother's  sighing  ever 
And  not  the  voice  of  God? 


THE  CLAIM. 

Grtef  snte  upon  a  rock  and  sighed  one  day, 

(Sighing  is  all  her  rest !) 
■' Wellaway,  wellaway,  ah,  wellaway!" 
As  ocean  beat  the  stone,  did  she  her  breast, 
"Ah,  wellaway!  .  ah  me!  alas   ah  me!" 

Such  sighing  uttered  she. 

29  W 


388  SONNETS. 

A  cloud  spake  out  of  heaven,  as  soft  as  rain 

That  falls  on  water — "  Lo, 
The  Winds  have  wandered  from  me !     I  remain 
Alone  in  the  sky-waste,  and  cannot  go 
To  lean  ray  whiteness  on  the  mountain  blue 

Till  wanted  for  more  dew. 

"The  Sun  has  struck  my  brain  to  weary  peace, 

Whereh}'^  constrained  and  pale 
I  spin  for  him  a  larger  golden  fleece 
Than  Jason's,  j^earning  for  as  full  a  sail. 
Sweet  Grief,  when  thou  hast  sighed  to  thy  mind, 

Give  me  a  sigh  for  wind. 

•'  And  let  it  carry  me  adown  the  west," 

But  Love,  who, 'prostrated. 
Lay  at  Grief's  foot,  his  lifted  eyes  possessed 
Of  her  full  image,  answered  in  her  stead  ; 
"  Now  nay,  now  na}' !  she  sliall  not  give  away 
What  is  my  wealth,  for  an}-  Cloud  that  flieth. 

Wbere  Grief  makes  moan, 

Love  claims  his  own  ! 
And  therefore  do  I  lie  here  night  and  day, 
And  eke  my  life  out  with  the  breath  she  sigheth." 


SONNETS. 

THE    soul's    expression. 

With  stammering  lips  and  insufficient  sound 

I  strive  and  struggle  to  deliver  right 

That  music  of  my  nature,  day  and  ni<rht 

With  dream  and  thought  and  feeling  interwound. 

And  inl}'  answering  all  the  senses  round 

With  octaves  of  a  mystic  depth  and  height 

Which  step  out  grandly  to  the  infinite 

From  the  dark  edges  of  the  sensual  ground  ! 

This  song  of  soul  I  struggle  to  outbear 

Through  portals  of  the  sense,  sublime  and  whole, 

And  utter  nil  mj'self  into  the  air. 

But  if  I  did  it — as  the  thunder-roll 

Breaks  its  own  cloud,  my  flesh  would  perish  there, 

Before  that  dread  apocalypse  of  sou? 


SONNETS.  339 


THE    SERAPH    AND    POET. 


The  seraph  sings  before  the  manifest 
God-One  and  in  the  burning  of  the  Seven, 
And  witli  the  full  life  of  consummate  Heaven 
Having  beneath  him,  like  a  mother's  breast 
Warm  with  her  first-born's  slumber  in  that  nost 
The  poet  sings  u[)on  the  earth  grave-riven, 
Before  the  naughty  world,  soon  self-forgiven 
For  wronging  him — and  in  the  darkness  prest 
From  his  own  soul  by  worldly  weights.     Even  so! 
Sing,  seraph  with  the  glory  !  heaven  is  high. 
Sing,  poet  with  the  sorrow!  earth  is  low. 
The  universe's  inward  voices  cry 
"  Amen  "  to  either  song  of  joy  and  woe. 
Sing,  seraph — poet — sing  on  equally  ! 

BEREAVEMENT. 

When  some  Beloveds,  'neath  whose  eyelids  lay 

The  sweet  lights  of  my  childhood,  one  b}'  one" 

Did  leave  me  dark  before  the  natural  sun, 

And  I  astonied  fell  and  could  not  pray — 

A  thought  within  me  to  myself  did  say, 

"  Is  God  less  God,  that  thou  art  left  undone  ? 

Rise,  worship,  bless  Him,  in  this  sackcloth  spun, 

As  in  that  purple  !  " — But  I  answered.  Nay  ! 

What  child  his  filial  heart  in  Avords  can  loose. 

If  he  behold  his  tender  father  raise 

The  hand  that  chastens  sorely  ?  can'he  choose 

But  sob  in  silence  with  an  upward  gaze  ? — 

And  my  great  Father,  thinking  fit  to  bruise, 

Discerns  in  speechless  tears,  both  prayer  and  praise 

consolation. 

All  are  not  taken  ;  there  are  left  behind 

Living  Beloveds,  tender  looks  to  bring. 

And  make  the  daylight  still  a  happy  thing, 

And  tender  voices,  to  make  soft  the  wind. 

But  if  it  were  not  so — if  I  could  find 

No  love  in  all  the  world  for  comforting. 

Nor  any  path  but  hollowl3^  did  ring, 

Where  "  dust  to  dust  "  the  love  from  life  disjoined, 

And,  if,  before  those  sepulchres  tinmoving, 

I  stood  alone,  (as  some  forsaken  lamb 

Goes  bleating  up  the  moors  in  weary  dearth) 


310  SONNETS 

Crying  "  Where  are  ye,  0  my  loved  and  loving  ?  " 
I  know  a  Voice  would  sound,  "  Daughter,  I  am. 
Can  I  suffice  for  Heaven,  and  not  for  earth  ?  " 

TO  MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

IN     HER     GARPKN. 

What  time  I  lay  these  rhymes  anear  thy  feet, 
Benignant  friend,  I  will  not  proudly  say 
As  better  poets  use,  "  These  Jlowers  1  la}'," 
Because  I  would  not  wrong  th}'  roses  sweet, 
Blaspheming  so  their  name.     And  yet,  repeat. 
Thou,  overleaning  them  this  springtime  day, 
With  heart  as  open  to  love  as  theirs  to  May, 
— "  Low-rooted  verse  may  reach  some   heavenly  heat. 
Even  like  my  blossoms,  if  as  nature-true, 
Though  not  as  precious."     Thou  art  unperplext, 
Dear  friend,  in  whose  dear  writings  drops  the  dew 
And  blow  the  natural  airs — thou,  who  art  next 
To  nature's  self  in  cheering  the  world's  view — 
To  preach  a  sermon  on  so  known  a  text ! 

ON    A   PORTRAIT     OF   WORDSWORTH. 

nv    R.    B.    H/WDON. 

Wordsworth  upon  Helvellyn  !    Let  the  cloud 
Ebb  audibh'  along  the  mountain-wind 
Then  break  against  the  rock,  and  show  behind 
The  lowland  valleys  floating  up  to  cj-owd 
The  sense  with  beauty.     H<3  with  forehead  bowed 
And  humble-lidded  eyes,  as  one  inclined 
before  the  sovran  thought  of  bis  own  mind, 
And  very  meek  with  inspirations  proud, 
Takes  here  his  rightinl  place  as  poet-priest 
By  the  high  altar,  singing  praye^r  and  prayer 
To  the  higher  HeaA-ens.     A  nobleV  vision  free 
Our  Haydon's  hand  has  flung. out  from  the  mist  I 
No  portrait  this,  with  Academic  air  ! 
This  is  his  poet  and  his  poetr}-. 

PAST    AND    FUTURE. 

My  future  will  not  cop}'  fair  my  past 
On  any  leaf  but  Heaven's.     Be  fully  done, 
Supernal  Will !    I  would  not  fain  be  one 
Who,  satisfving  thirst  and  breaking  fast 


SONNETS.  341 

Upon  the  fulness  of  the  heart,  at  last 

Says  no  grace  after  meat.     y\y  wine  has  run 

Indeed  out  of  iriv  cup,  and  there  is  none 

To  gather  up  the  lu'ead  of  my  vc[)ast 

Scattered  and  trampled — vet  I  find  some  good 

In  earth's  green  herbs,  and  streams  that  bubble  up 

Clear  from  tiie  darkling  ground — content  until 

I  sit  with  angels  before  better  food. 

Dear  Christ !  when  thy  new  vintage  fills  my  cup, 

This  hand  shall  shake  no  more,  uor  that  wine  spiU. 

IRREPARABLENESS. 

I  HAVE  been  in  the  meadows  all  the  day 
And  gathered  there  the  nosegay  that  3'ou  see, 
Singing  within  myself  as  a  bird  or  bee 
^^'hen  such  do  field-work  on  a  morn  of  Ma^'. 
But  now  I  look  ui)on  my  flowers,  decay 
Has  met  them  in  my  hands  more  fatally 
Because  more  warmly  clasped — and  sobs  are  free 
To  come  instead  of  songs.     What  do  you  say, 
Sweet  counsellors,  dear  friends?  that  I  should  go 
Back  straightway  to  the  fields,  and  gather  more  ? 
Another,  sooth,  ma}'  do  it — but  not  1  ! 
My  heart  is  very  tired,  ni}-  strength  is  low, 
My  hands  are  full  of  blossoms  plucked  before, 
Held  dead  within  them  till  myself  shall  die. 

TEARS. 

Thank  God,  bless  God,  all  ye  who  suffer  not 

More  grief  than  ye  can  weep  for.     That  is  well — 

That  is  liglit  grieving!  lighter,  none  befell, 

Since  Adam  forfeited  the  primal  lot. 

Tears  !  what  are  tears?     The  babe  weeps  in  its  cot, 

The  mother  singing — at  her  marriage-bell 

The  brivle  weeps — and  before  the  oracle 

Of  high-faned  hills,  the  poet  has  forgot 

Such  moisture  on  his  cheeks.     Thank  God  for  grace, 

Ye  who  weep  only  !   If,  as  some  have  done, 

Ye  grope  tear-blinded  in  a  desert  place 

And  touch  but  tombs^look  up!  tliose  tears  will  run 

Soon  in  long  rivers  down  the  lifted  face. 

And  leave  the  vision  clear  for  stars  and  sun 

29* 


342  SONNETS. 

GRIEF. 

I  TELL  you,  hopeless  grief  is  passionless ; 

Tliat  only  men  incredulous  of  despair, 

lialf-t.aught  in  aiiguisli,  through  the  midnight  air 

Beat  upward  to  God's  throne  in  loud  access 

Of  shrieking  and  reproach.     Full  desertness 

In  souls  as  countries,  lieth  silent-bare 

Under  the  blanching,  vertical  e3e-glare 

Of  the  absolute  Heavens.     Deep-hearted  man,  express 

Grief  for  thy  Dead  in  silence  like  to  death  : — 

Most  like  a  monumental  statue  set 

In  everlasting  watch  and  moveless  woe, 

Till  itself  crural)le  to  the  dust  beneath. 

Touch  it :  the  marble  eyelids  are  not  wet. 

If  it  could  weep  it  could  arise  and  go. 

SUBSTITUTIOX. 

When  some  beloved  voice  that  was  to  you 
Both  sound  and  sweetness,  faileth  suddenlj". 
And  silence  against  which  you  dare  not  cr}-, 
Aches  round  j'ou  like  a  strong  disease  and  new — 
What  hope  ?  what  help?  what  music  will  undo 
That  silence  to  your  sense?     Not  friendship's  sigh. 
Not  reason's  sulitle  count.     Not  melody 
Of  viols,  nor  of  pipes  that  Faunus  blew. 
Not  songs  of  poets,  nor  of  nightingales, 
W^hose  hearts  leap  upward  through  the  cypz-ess  trees 
To  the  clear  moon !  nor  yet  the  spheric  laws 
Self-cbanted — nor  the  angels'  sweet  All  haiJs, 
Met  in  the  smile  of  God.     Nay,  none  of  these. 
Speak  THOU,  availing  Christ ! — and  fill  this  pause. 

COMFORT. 

Speak  low  to  me,  my  Saviour,  low  and  sweet 
From  out  the  hallelujahs,  sweet  and  low, 
Lest  I  should  fear  and  fall,  and  miss  thee  so 
Who  art  not  missed  b^'  any  that  entreat. 
Speak  to  me  as  to  INIary  at  th}-^  feet ! 
And  if  no  precious  gums  my  hands  bestow, 
Let  m}'  tears  drop  like  amber,  while  I  go 
In  reach  of  thy  divinest  voice  complete 
In  humauest  affection — thus,  in  sooth 
To  lose  the  sense  of  losing.     As  a  child, 
Whose  song-bird  seeks  the  wood  for  evermore, 


SONNETS.  34J 

Is  sung  to  in  its  stead  by  mother's  mouth, 
Till,  sinking  on  her  breast,  love-reconciled, 
He  sleeps  the  faster  that  he  wept  before. 

PERPLEXED    MUSIC. 

AFFECTIONATELY    INSCRIBED    TO    E.  J. 

Experience,  like  a  pale  musician,  holds 

A  dulcimer  of  patience  in  his  hand, 

Whence  harmonies  we  cannot  understand. 

Of  God's  will  in  his  worlds,  the  strain  unfol,' 

In  sad,  perplexed  minor.     Deathly  colds 

Fall  on  us  while  we  hear  and  countermand 

Our  sanguine  heart  back  from  the  fancy-land 

With  nightingales  in  visionary  wolds. 

We  murmur — "  Where  is  any  certain  tune 

Or  measured  music,  in  such  notes  as  these  ?" — 

But  angels,  leaning  from  the  golden  seat. 

Art  not  so  minded  ;  their  fine  ear  hath  won 

The  issue  of  completed  cadences, 

And,  smiling  down  the  stars,  they  whisper — Sweet. 

WORK. 

What  are  we  set  on  earth  for  ?     Say,  to  toil ; 

Nor  seek  to  leave  thy  tending  of  the  vines. 

For  all  the  heat  o'  the  day,  till  it  declines. 

And  death's  mild  curfew  shall  from  work  assoil. 

God  did  anoint  thee  with  his  odorous  oil, 

To  wrestle,  not  to  reign  ;  and  lie  assigns 

All  thy  tears  over,  like  pure  crystallines, 

For  3'ounger  fellow-workers  of  the  soil 

To  wear  for  amulets.     So  others  shall 

Take  patience,  labor,  to  their  heart  and  hand. 

From  thy  hand,  and  tli}'  heart,  and  thy  brave  cheet; 

And  God's  grace  fructify  through  thee  to  all. 

The  least  flower,  with  a  brimming  cup,  may  stand, 

And  share  its  dew-drop  with  another  near. 

FUTURITY. 

And,  0  beloved  voices,  upon  which 
Ours  passionately  call,  because  erelong 
Ye  brake  off  in  the  middle  of  that  song 
We  sang  together  softly,  to  enrich 


344  SONNETS. 

The  poor  world  with  the  sense  of  love,  and  witch 

The  heart  out  of  things  evil — I  am  strong, 

Knowing  3'e  are  not  lust  for  a3e  among 

The  hills,  with  last  year's  thrash.     God  keeps  a  niche 

In  Heaven,  to  hold  our  idols:  and  albeit 

He  brake  them  to  our  faces,  and  denied 

That  our  close  kisses  should  impair  their  white — 

I  know  we  shall  behold  them  raised,  complete, 

The  dust  swept  from  their  beaut}' — glorified 

Kew  Memnons  singing  in  the  great  God-light. 

THE   TWO    SAYINGS. 

Two  sayings  of  the  Holy  Scriptures  beat 
Like  pulses  in  the  church's  brow  and  breast  1 
And  by  them,  we  find  rest  in  our  unrest, 
And  heart-deep  in  salt  tears,  do  yet  entreat 
God's  fellowship,  as  if  on  heavenly  seat. 
The  first  is  Jesus  avept — whereon  is  prest 
Full  many  a  sobbing  face  that  drops  its  best 
And  sweetest  waters  on  the  record  sweet. 
And  one  is,  where  the  Christ,  denied  and  scorned, 
Looked  upon  Peter.     Oh,  to  render  plain. 
By  help  of  having  loved  a  little  and  mourned. 
That  look  of  sovran  love  and  sovran  pain 
Which  He,  who  could  not  sin  yet  suffered,  turned 
On  him  who  could  reject  but  not' sustain  I 

the  look. 

The  Saviour  looked  on  Peter.     A3',  no  word. 

No  gesture  of  reproach !  the  Heavens  serene. 

Though  heav3'  with  armed  justice,  did  not  lean 

Their  thunders  that  wa}' !  the  forsaken  Lord 

Looked  onl}',  on  the  traitor.     None  record 

What  that  look  was,  none  guess  ;  for  those  who  have 

seen 
Wronged  lovers  loving  through  a  death-pang  keen, 
Or  pale-cheeked  mart3'rs  smiling  to  a  sword, 
Have  missed  Jehovah  at  the  judgment-call. 
And  Peter,  from  the  height  of  blasphemy — 
"  I  never  knew  this  man  " — did  quail  and  fall. 
As  knowing  straight  tpiat  God,  and  turned  free 
And  Avent  out  speechless  from  the  face  of  all, 
And  filled  the  silence,  weeping  bitterly. 


SONNETS.  345 

THE    MEANING    OF   THE   LOOK. 

I  TiiiNX.  that  look  of  Christ  inight  seem  to  say 

"Thou  Peter!  art  thou  then  a  common  stone 
Which  I  at  last  must  break  my  heart  upon, 
For  all  God's  charge  to  Hi<  high  angels  may 
Guard  my  foot  better?     Did  1  yesterday 
Wash  thy  feet,  my  beloved,  that  they  should  run 
Quick  to  deny  me  'neath  the  morning  sun  ? 
And  do  thy  kisses,  like  the  rest,  betray  ? 
The  cock  crows  coldly. — Go,  and  manifest 
A  late  contrition,  but  no  bootless  fear  ! 
For  when  th}'  final  need  is  dreariest, 
Thou  shalt  not  be  denied,  as  I  am  here — 
My  voice,  to  God  and  angels,  shall  attest, 
Because  I  know  this  man,  let  Jiim  be  clear  /" 

A  THOUGHT  FOR  A  LONELY  DEATH-BED 

INSCItlBKD    TO    JIY    FRIEND    E.    C. 

If  God  compel  thee  to  this  destiny. 

To  die  alone — with  none  beside  thy  bed 

To  ruffle  round  witii  sobs  thy  last  word  said. 

And  mark  with  tears  the  pulses  ebb  from  thee— 

Pray  then  alone — "  0  Christ,  come  tenderly  ! 

By  th}^  forsaken  Sonship  in  the  red 

Drear  wine-press — by  the  wilderness  outspread 

And  the  lone  garden  where  Thine  agony 
Fell  bloodj  from  thy  brow — by  all  of  those 
Permitted  desolations,  comfort  mine  ! 
No  earthly  friend  being  near  me,  interpose 
No  deathly  angel  'twixt  my  face  and  Thine, 
But  stoop  Thyself  to  gather  my  life's  rose, 
And  smile  a\va3'  my  mortal  to  Divine." 

WORK   AND    CONTEMPLATION. 

The  woman  singeth  at  her  spinning-wheel 

A  pleasant  chant,  ballad,  or  barcarole. 

She  thinketh  of  her  song,  upon  the  whole, 

Far  more  than  of  her  flax  ;  and  yet  the  reel 

Is  full,  and  artfully  her  fingers  feel 

With  quick  adjustmeut,  provident  control, 

The  lines,  too  subtly  twisted  to  unroll. 

Out  to  a  perfect  thread.     I  hence  appeal 

To  the  dear  Christian  chui-ch— that  we  may  do 

Our  Father's  business  in  these  temples  mirk, 

Thus  swift  and  stedfast — thus,  intent  and  strong; 


34tj  SONNETS. 

While,  thus,  apart  from  toil,  our  souls  pursue 
Some  high,  calm,  spheric  tune,  and  prove  our  work 
The  better  for  the  sweetness  of  our  song. 

PAIN    IN    PLEASURE. 

A  Thought  lay  like  a  flower  upon  mine  heart, 

And  drew  around  it  other  thoughts  like  bees 

For  multitude  and  thirst  of  sweetnesses — 

Whereat  rejoicing,  I  desired  the  art 

Of  the  Greek  whistler,  who  to  wharf  and  mart 

Could  lure  those  insect  swarms  from  orange-trees. 

That  I  might  hive  ^^ith  me  such  thoughts,  and  please 

My  soul  so,  always.     Foolish  counterpart 

Of  a  weak  man's  vain  wishes !     While  I  spoke, 

The  thought  1  called  a  flower,  grew  nettle-rough — 

The  thoughts,  called  bees,  stung  ine  to  festering. 

Oh,  entertain  (cried  Keason,  as  she  woke,) 

Your  best  and  gladdest  thoughts  but  long  enough, 

And  they  will  all  prove  sad  enough  to  sting. 

FLUSH    OR  FAUNUS. 

You  see  this  dog.     It  was  but  A-esterday, 

1  mused  forgetful  of  his  presence  here 

Till  thought  on  thought  drew^  downward  tear  on  tear, 

When  from  the  pillow,  where  wet-cheeked  I  lay, 

A  head  as  hairy  as  Faun  us,  thrust  its  way 

Right  sudden  against  my  face — two  golden-clear 

Great  eyes  astonished  mine — a  drooping  ear 

Did  flap  me  on  either  cheek  to  dry  the  spray  1 

I  started  first,  as  some  Arcadian, 

Amazed  by  goatly  god  in  twilight  grove  ; 

But,  as  the  bearded  vision  closelier  ran 

My  tears  off,  I  knew  Flush,  and  rose  above 

Surpri.'se  and  sadness — thanking  the  true  Pan, 

Who,  by  low  creatures,  leads  to  heights  of  love 

FINITE    AND    INFINITE. 

The  wind  sounds  only  in  o^^posing  straights, 

The  sea,  beside  the  shure ;  man's  spirit  rends 

Its  quiet  only  up  against  the  ends 

Of  wants  and  oppositions,  loves  and  hates, 

Where,  worked  and  worn  by  passionate  debates, 

And  losing  by  the  loss  it  apprehends. 

The  flesh  rocks  round,  and  every  breath  it  sends 

Is  ravelled  to  a  sish.     All  tortured  states 


SONNETS.  341 

Suppose  a  straitened  place.     Jehovah  Lord, 
Make  room  for  rest  around  me  !  out  of  sight 
Now  float  me,  of  the  vexing  hind  abhorred, 
Till  in  deep  calms  of  space,  my  soul  may  right 
Her  nature — shoot  large  sail  on  lengthening  cord, 
And  rush  exultant  on  the  Infinite. 


AN    APPREHENSION. 

If  all  the  gentlest-hearted  friends  I  know 

Concentred  in  one  heart  their  gentleness, 

That  still  grew  gentler,  till  its  pulse  was  less 

For  life  than  pity — I  should  3-et  be  slow 

To  bring  my  own  heart  nakedl}^  below 

The  palm  of  such  a  friend,  that  he  should  press, 

Motive,  coiidition,  means,  appliances, 

jNIy  false  ideal  J03'  and  tickle  woe. 

Out  full  to  light  and  knowledge  ;  I  should  fear 

Some  plait  between  the  brows — some  rougher  chime 

In  tlie  free  voice  ....  0  angels  let  your  ilood 

Of  bitter  scorn  dash  on  me  !  do  ye  hear 

What  /  sa3',  who  bear  calmly  all  the  time 

This  everlasting  face  to  face  with  Goi)  ? 

DISCONTENT. 

Light  human  nature  is  too  lightly  tost 

And  ruffled  without  cause — complaining  on. 

Restless  with  rest — until,  being  overthrown. 

It  learneth  to  lie  quiet.     Let  a  frost 

Or  a  small  wasp  have  crept  to  the  innermost 

Of  our  ripe  peach,  or  let  the  wilful  sun 

Shine  westward  of  our  window — straight  we  run 

A  furlong's  sigh,  as  if  the  world  were  lost. 

But  what  time  through  the  heart  and  through  the  brain 

God  hath  transfixed  us — we,  so  moved  before, 

Attain  to  a  calm.     Ay,  shouldering  weights  of  pain, 

We  anchor  in  deep  waters,  safe  from  shore. 

And  hear  submissive,  o'er  the  storm}'-  main, 

God's  chartered  judgments,  walk  for  evermore. 

PATIENCE    TAUGHT    BY    NATURE. 

"  0  DREARY  life,"  we  cry,   "  0  dreary  life  1  " 
And  still  the  generations  of  the  birds 
Sing  through  our  sighing,  and  the  flocks  an-d  herds 
Sercnel}'  live  while  we  are  keeping  strife 


348  SONNETS, 

With  heaven's  true  purpose  in  us,  as  a  knife 
Against  which  we  may  struggle  !  ocean  girds 
Unslackened  the  dry  land,  savannah-swards 
Unweary  sweep — hills  watch,  unworn  ;  and  rife 
Meek  leaves  drop  yearly  from  the  forest-trees, 
To  show  above  the  un wasted  stars  that  pass 
In  their  old  glory.    0  thou  god  of  old, 
Grant  me  some  smaller  grace  than  comes  to  these 
But  so  much  patience,  as  a  blade  of  grass 
Grows  by  contented  through  the  heat  and  cold. 

CHEERFULNESS  TAUGHT  BY  REASON. 

I  THINK  we  are  too  ready  with  complaint 

In  this  fair  world  of  God's.     Had  we  no  hope 

Indeed  beyond  the  zenith  and  the  slope 

Of  yon  grey  blank  of  sky,  we  might  grow  faint 

To  muse  upon  eternity's  constraint 

Round  our  aspirant  souls  ;  but  sjnce  the  scope 

Must  widen  early,  is  it  well  to  droop. 

For  a  few  days  consumed  in  loss  and  taint? 

0  pusillanimous  Heart,  be  comforted — 

And,  like  a  cheerful  traveller,  take  the  road. 

Singing  beside  the  hedge.    What  if  the  bread 

Be  bitter  in  thine  inn,  and  thou  unshod 

To  meet  the  flints  ? — At  least  it  may  be  said, 

"  Because  the  way  is  short,  I  thank  thee,  God  I  " 

EXAGGERATION. 

We  overstate  the  ills  of  life,  and  take 
Imagination  (given  us  to  bring  down 
The'choirs  of  singing  angels  overshone 
By  God's  clear  glory)  down  our  earth  to  rake 
The  dismal  snows  instead— flake  following  flake, 
To  cover  all  the  corn.     We  walk  upon 
The  shadow  of  hills  across  a  level  thrown, 
And  pant  like  climbers.     Near  the  alderbrake 
We  sigh  so  loud,  the  nightingale  within 
Refuses  to  sing  loud,  as  else  she  would. 
O  brothers !  let  us  leave  the  shame  and  sin 
Of  taking  vainly,  in  a  plaintive  mood. 
The  holy  name  of  Grief!— holy  herein. 
That,  by  the  grief  of  One,  came  all  our  good. 


SONNETS.  3iy 

ADEQUACY. 

Now  by  tlie  verdue  on  thy  thousand  hills, 

Beloved  Englaud — dotli  the  earth  appear 

Quite  good  enough  for  men  to  overbear 

The  will  of  God  in,  with  rebellious  wills  ! 

We  cannot  say  the  morning-sun  fulfils 

Ingloriously  its  course,  nor  that  the  clear, 

Strong  stars  without  significance  insphere 

Our  habitation.     We,  meantime,  our  ills 

Heap  up  against  this  good,  and  lift  a  cry 

Against  this  work-day  world,  this  ill-spread  feast, 

As  if  ourselves  were  better  certainly 

Than  what  we  come  to.     Maker  ancl  High  Priest, 

I  ask  thee  not  ni}-  joys  to  multiply — 

Onlj^  to  make  me  worthier  of  the  least. 

TO    GEORGE    SAND. 

A     DKSIIIE. 

Thou  large-brained  woman  and  large-hearted  man, 

Self-called  George  Sand  !  whose  soul,  amid  the  lionu 

Of  thj'  tumultuous  senses,  moans  defiance, 

And  answers  roar  for  roar,  as  spirits  can  ! 

I  would  some  mild  miraculous  thunder  ran 

Above  the  applauded  circus,  in  appliance 

Of  thine  own  nobler  nature's  strength  and  science, 

Drawing  two  pinions,  white  as  wings  of  swan. 

From  thy  strong  shoulders,  to  amaze  the  place 

With  holier  light !  that  thou  to  woman's  claim, 

And  man's,  might'st  join  beside  the  angel's  o-race. 

Of  a  pure  genius  sanctified  from  blame — 

Till  child  and  maiden  pressed  to  thine  embrace 

To  kiss  upon  thy  lips  a  stainless  fame. 

A    RECOGNITION. 

True  genius,  but  true  woman  !  dost  deny 
Th}'  woman's  nature  with  a  manly  scorn. 
And  break  away  the  gauds  and  armlets  worn 
By  weaker  women  in  captivity  ? 
Ah,  vain  denial !  that  revolted  cry 
]s  sobbed  in  by  a  woman's  voice  forlorn  ! — 
'I'll}'-  woman's  hair,  my  sister,  all  unsliorn, 
Floats  back  dishevelled  strength  in  agony. 
Disproving  thy  man's  name  !  and  while  before 
The  world  thou  burnest  in  a  poet-fire 
30 


350  SONNETS, 

We  see  th}'  woman-heart  beat  evermore 

Through    the    Large  flame.     Beat,    purer,  heart,  and 

higher, 
Till  God  unsex  thee  on  the  hearenly  shore. 
Where  uniucarnate  spirits  purely  aspire. 

THE    PRISONER. 

I  COUNT  the  dismal  time  by  months  and  years, 
Since  last  I  felt  the  green  sward  under  foot, 
And  the  great  breath  of  all  things  summer-mute 
Met  mine  npon  my  lips.     Now  earth  appears 
As  strange  to  me  as  dreams  of  distant  spheres, 
Or  thoughts  of  Heaven  we  weep  at.     Nature's  lute 
Sounds  on  behind  this  door  so  closely  shut, 
A  strange,  wild  music  to  the  prisoner's  ears, 
Dilated  by  the  distance,  till  the  brain 
Grows  dim  with  fancies  which  it  feels  too  fine, 
While  ever,  with  a  visionary  pain, 
Past  the  precluded  senses,  sweep  and  shine 
Streams,  forests,  glades — and  many  a  golden  train 
Of  sunlit  hills,  transfigured  to  Divine. 

INSUFFICIENCY. 

When  I  attain  to  utter  forth  in  verse 

Some  inward  thought,  my  soul  throbs  audibly 

Along  my  pulses,  yearning  to  be  free 

And  something  farther,  fuller,  higher,  rehearse, 

To  the  individual,  true,  and  the  universe. 

In  consummation  of  right  harmon}'. 

But,  like  a  wind-exposed,  distorted  tree, 

We  are  blown  against  for  ever  by  the  curse 

Which  breathes  through  nature.     Oh,   the   world   la 

weak — 
The  effluence  of  each  is  false  to  all. 
And  what  we  best  conceive,  we  fail  to  speak. 
Wait,  soul,  until  thine  ashen  garments  fall, 
\nd  tlien  resume  thy  broken  strains,  and  seek 
i^'it  peroration,  without  let  or  thrall. 

TWO  sketches. 

H.    B. 

The  shadow  of  her  face  upon  the  wall 
May  take  your  memory  to  the  perfect  Greek, 
But  when  you  front  her,  you  would  call  the  cheek 
Too  full,  sir,  for  your  models,  if  withal 


SONNETS.  351 

That  bloom  it  wears  could  leave  you  critical, 
And  that  smile  reaching  toward  the  rosy  streak: 
For  one  who  smiles  so,  has  no  need  to  speak 
To  lead  your  thoughts  along,  as  steed  to  stall. 
A  smile  that  turns  the  sunn}"^  side  o'  tlie  heart 
On  all  the 'world,  as  if  herself  did  win 
B3'  wliat  she  lavished  on  an  open  mart ! 
Let  no  man  call  the  liberal  sweetness  sin  — 
For  friends  may  whisper,  as  they  stand  apart, 
"  Methinks  there's  still  some  warmer  place  within." 


Her  azure  eyes,  dark  lashes  hold  in  fee  ; 
Her  fair  su[)ertluoiis  ringlets,  without  check, 
Drop  after  one  another  down  her  neck, 
As  man}'  to  each  cheek  as  3'ou  might  see 
Green  leaves  to  a  wild  rose !  this  sign  outwardl}', 
And  a  like  woman-covering  seems  to  deck 
Her  inner  nature.     For  she  will  not  fleck 
World's  sunshine  with  a  finger.     Sympathy 
Must  call  her  in  Love's  name!  and  tlien,  I  know, 
She  rises  up,  and  brightens  as  she  should, 
And  lights  her  smile  for  comfort,  and  is  slow 
In  nothing  of  high-hearted  fortitude. 
To  smell  this  flower,  come  near  it !  such  can  grow 
In   that    sole    garden    where    Christ's    brow  dropped 
blood. 

MOUNTAINEER    AND   POET. 

The  simple  goatherd,  between  Alp  and  sky, 
Seeing  his  shadow,  in  that  awful  tryst, 
Dilated  tr)  a  giant's  on  the  mist, 
Esteems  not  his  own  stature  larger  by 
The  apparent  image,  but  more  patiently 
Strikes  his  stall"  down  heneath  his  clenching  fist, 
While  the  snow-mountains  lift  their  amethyst 
And  sapphire  crowns  of  splendor,  far  and  nigh, 
Into  the  air  around  him.     Learn  from  hence 
Meek  morals,  all  ye  poets,  that  pursue 
Your  way  still  onward,  up  to  eminence  1 
Ye  are  not  great,  because  creation  drew 
Large  revelations  round  your  earliest  sense, 
Nor  bright,  because  God's  glory  shines  for  you. 


352  SONNETS. 

THE   POET. 

The  poet  hath  the  child's  sight  in  his  breast, 

And  sees  all  new.     What  oftenest  he  has  viewed, 

He  views  with  the  first  glory.     Fair  and  good 

Pall  never  on  him,  at  the  fairest,  best,  • 

But  stand  before  him  holy  and  undressed 

In  week-day  false  conventions,  such  as  would 

Drag  other  men  down  from  the  altitude 

Of  primal  t^'pes,  too  early  dispossessed. 

Wh3^  God  would  tire  of  all  his  heavens,  as  soon 

As  thou,  O  godlike,  childlike  poet,  didst. 

Of  daily  and  nighll\'  sights  of  sun  and  moon! 

And  therefore  hath  He  set  thee  in  the  midst. 

Where  men  may  hear  th}'  wonder's  ceaseless  tune, 

And  praise  his  world  for  ever,  as  thou  bidst. 

HIRAM    POWERS'S    GREEK    SLAVE. 

They  say  Ideal  beaut}^  cannot  enter 

The  house  of  anguish.     On  ihe  threshold  stands 

An  alien  Image  with  enshackled  hands. 

Called  the  Greek  Slave  !  as  if  the  artist  meant  her 

(That  passionless  perfection  which  he  lent  her. 

Shadowed  not  darkened  where  the  sill  expands) 

To,  so,  confront  man's  crimes  in  different  lands 

With  man's  ideal  sense.     Pierce  to  the  centre, 

Art's  fiery  finger ! — and  break  up  ere  long 

The  serfdom  of  this  world  !  appeal,  fair  stone, 

From   God's  pure   heights  of  beauty   against   man'» 


wrong 


Catch  up  in  thy  divine  face,  not  alone 

East    griefs,  but    west — and   strike   and    shame   the 

strong, 
By  thunders  of  white  silence,  overthrown. 

LIFE. 

Each  creature  holds  an  insular  point  in  space  ; 
Yet  what  man  stirs  a  finger,  breathes  a  sound, 
But  all  the  multitudinous  beings  round 
In  all  the  countless  worlds,  with  time  and  place 
For  their  conditions,  down  to  the  central  base, 
Thrill,  haply,  in  vibration  and  rebound, 
Life  answering  life  across  the  vast  profound, 
In  full  antiphony,  by  a  common  grace  ? 
I  think,  this  sudden  J03ance  which  illumes 
A  child's  mouth  sleeping,  unaware  may  run 


SONNETS.  353 

From  some  soul  newly  loosened  from  earth's  tombs. 
I  think,  this  passionate  sigh,  which  half-begun 
I  stifle  back,  may  reach  and  stir  the  plumes 
Of  (jitxl's  calm  angel  standing  in  the  sun. 

LOVE. 

"We  cannot  live,  except  thus  mutually 

We  alternate,  aware  or  unaware, 

The  reflex  act  of  life  ;  and  when  we  bear 

Our  virtue  outward  most  impulsively, 

Most  full  of  invocation,  and  to  be 

Most  instantly  compellant,  certes,  there 

We  live  most  life,  whoever  breathes  most  air. 

And  counts  his  dying  years  by  sun  and  sea. 

But  when  a  soul,  by  choice  and  conscience,  doth 

Throw  out  her  full  force  on  another  soul, 

The  conscience  and  the  concentration  both 

Make  mere  life,  Love.     For  Life  in  [lerfect  whole 

And  aim  consummated,  is  Love. in  sooth, 

As  nature's  magnet-heat  rounds  pole  with  pole. 

heaven  and  earth. 

"And  there  was  silence  in  lieaven  for  tlie  space  of  lialf  an  hour," 

Revelation. 

God,  who,  with  thunders  and  great  voices  kept 

Beneath  thy  throne,  and  stars  most  silver-paced 

Along  the  inferior  gj'res,  and  open-faced 

Melodious  angels  round — canst  intercept 

Music  with  music — yet,  at  will,  iiast  swept 

All  back,  all  back,  (said  he  in  Patmos  placed,)  '* 

To  fill  the  heavens  with  silence  of  the  waste 

Which  lasted  half  an  hour! — ^lo,  I  who  have  wept 

All  day  and  night,  beseech  Thee  by  my  tears. 

And  by  that  dread  response  of  curse  and  groan 

Men  alternate  across  these  hemisplieres, 

Vouchsafe  us  such  a  half-hour's  hush  alone, 

In  compensation  for  our  storm}'  years  ! 

As  heaven  has  paused  from  song,  let  earth,  from  moan 

THE    PROSPECT. 

Methinks  we  do  as  fretful  children  do, 
Leaning  their  faces  on  the  window-pane 
To  sigh  the  glass  dim  with  their  own  breath's  stain, 
And  sliut  the  sky  and  landscape  from  their  view. 
30*  X 


354  SONNETS. 

And  thus,  alas  I  since  God  the  maker  drew 
A  mystic  separation  'twixt  those  twain, 
The  life  be3'ond  us,  and  our  souls  in  pain, 
We  miss  the  prospect  which  we  are  called  unto 
By  grief  we  are  fools  to  use.     Be  still  and  strong, 
(>  man,  my  brother!  hold  thy  sobbing  breath, 
And  keep  th}'  soul's  large  window  pure  from  wrong- 
That  so,  as  life's  appointment  issueth, 
Thjr  vision  may  be  clear  to  watch  along 
The  sunset  consummation-lights  of  death. 

HUGH    STUART    BOYD. 

HIS    BLINDNESS. 

God  would  not  let  the  spheric  Lights  accost 

This  God-loved  man,  and  bade  the  earth  stand  off 

With  all  her  beckoning  hills,  whose  golden  stuff 

Under  the  feet  of  the  royal  sun  is  crossed. 

Yet  such  things  were  to  him  not  wholly  lost — 

Permitted,  with  his  wandering  e^es  light-proof, 

To  catch  fair  visions,  rendered  full  enough 

By  many  a  ministrant  accomplished  ghost — 

Still  seeing,  to  sounds  of  softly-turned  book-leaves, 

Sappho's  crown-rose,  and  Meleager's  spring. 

And  Gregory's  starliglit  on  Greek-burnished  eves  1 

Till  Sensuous  and  Unsensuous  seemed  one  thing. 

Viewed  from  one  level — earth's  reapers  at  the  sheaves 

Scarce  plainer  than  Heaven's  angels  on  the  wingl 

HUGH    STUART   BOYD.* 

HIS    DEATH,    l'?4S. 

Beloved  friend,  who  living  many  j-ears 
With  sightless  eyes  raised  vainly  to  the  sun. 
Didst  learn  to  keep  thy  patient  soul  in  tune 
To  visible  nature's  elemental  cheers  ! 


*  To  whom  was  inscribed,  in  grateful  affection,  my  poem  of 
"  Cyprus  Wine."  There  conies  a  moment  in  life  when  even  grat. 
ituile  and  affection  turn  to  pain  as  they  do  now  with  me.  This 
excellent  and  learned  man,  enthusiastic  for  the  good  and  the 
beautiful,  and  one  of  the  most  simple  and  upright  of  human  be- 
ings, passed  out  of  his  long  darkness  through  death  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1848,  Dr.  Adam  Clarke's  daughter  and  biographer,  Mrs. 
Smith,  (happier,  in  this  than  the  absent)  fulfilling  a  doubly  filial 
duty  as  she  sat  by  the  death-bed  of  her  father's  friend  and  hers 


THE  LOST  HOWEK. 


THE     LOST     BOWER.  355 

Grod  has  not  caught  thee  to  new  hemispheres 
Because  thou  wast  awean'  of  tliis  one  ; — 
I  tliink  thine  angel's  patience  first  was  done, 
And  that  he  spake  out  with  celestial  tears, 
"  Is  it  enough,  dear  God  ?  then  lighten  so 
This  soul  that  smiles  in  darkness  !" 

Stedfast  friend, 
Who  never  didst  my  heart  or  life  misknow, 
Nor  cither's  faults  too  keenly  apprehend, 
How  can  1  wonder  when  I  see  thee  go 
To  join  the  Dead  found  faithful  to  the  end  ? 

HUGH    STUART    BOYD. 

I.KGACIES. 

l.'nREE  gifts  the  Dying  left  me — J^^seh^-lus, 

And  Gregor}'  Nazianzen,  and  a  clock. 

Chiming  the  gradual  hours  out  like  a  flock 

Of  stars  whose  motion  is  melodious. 

The  books  were  tliose  I  used  to  read  from,  thus 

Assisting  my  dear  teacher's  soul  to  unlock 

The  darkness  of  his  eyes.     Now,  mine  they  mock, 

Blinded  in  turn,  by  tears!  now,  murmurous   • 

Sad  echoes  of  my  young  voice,  j'cars  agone 

Entoning  from  these  leaves  the  Grecian  phrase, 

Return  and  choke  my  utterance.     Books,  lie  down 

In  silence  on  the  shelf  there,  within  gaze; 

And  thou,  clock,  striking  the  hour's  pulses  on. 

Chime  in  the  day  which  ends  these  parting  days  I 


THE  LOST  BOWER. 

In  the  pleasant  orchard  closes, 
"  God  bless  all  our  gains,"  say  we ; 
But  "  May  God  bless  all  our  losses," 
Better  suits  with  our  degree. 
Listen  gentle — ay  and  simple  !  listen  children  on  the 
knee  ! 

Green  the  land  is  where  my  daily 
Steps  in  jocund  childhood  played, 


366  THE     LOST      BOWER. 

Dimpled  close  with  hill  and  valley, 
Dappled  veiy  close  with  shade  ; 
Summer-snow   of    apple-blossoms    running   up    from 
glade  to  glade. 

There  is  one  hill  I  see  nearer 
In  my  vision  of  the  rest ; 
And  a  little  wood  seems  clearer 
As  it  climbeth  from  the  west, 
Sideway  from  the  tree-locked  valley,  to  the  air}'  uj> 
land  crest. 

Small  the  wood  is,  green  with  hazels, 
And,  completing  the  ascent, 
Wliere  the  wind  blows  and  sun  dazzles 
Thrills  in  leafy  tremblement, 
Like    a  heart    that,   after   climbing,    beateth    quickly 
through  content. 

Not  a  step  the  wood  advances 
O'er  the  open  hill-top's  bound. 
There,  in  green  arrest,  the  branches 
See  their  image  on  the  ground  : 
You  may  vvalk  beneath  them  smiling,  glad  with  sight 
and  glad  with  sound. 

For  you  hearken  on  your  right  hand. 
How  the  birds  do  leap  and  call 
In  the  greenwood,  out  of  sight  and 
Out  of  reach  and  fear  of  all ; 
And  the  squirrels   crack   the   filbei'ts   through   their 
cheerful  madrigal. 

On  your  left,  the  sheep  are  cropping 
The  slant  grass  and  daisies  pale. 
And  live  apple-trees  stand  dropping 
Separate  shadows  toward  the  vale, 
Over  which  in  clioral  silence,  the  hills  look  you  their 
"All  hail!" 

Far  out,  kindled  by  each  other, 
Shining  hills  on  hills  arise, 
Close  as  brother  leans  to  brother 
When  they  press  beneath  the  eyes 
Of  some  father  praying   blessings  from  the  gifts  o/ 
paradise. 

Wliile  beyond,  above  them  mounted, 
And  above  their  woods  also, 


THE     LOST     BOWER.  oi'il 

Malvern  hills,  for  mountains  counted 
Not  undul}',  loom  a-row — 
Keepers  of  Piers  Plowman's  visions  through  the  sun- 
shine  and  the  snow.* 

Yet,  in  childhood,  little  prized  I 
That  fair  Avalk  and  far  survey. 
'Tvvas  a  straight  walk  unadvised  b^' 
The  least  miscliief  worth  a  nay  ; 
Up  and  down — as  dull  as  grammar  on  the  eve  of  holi- 
day. 

But  the  wood,  all  close  and  clenching 
Bough  in  bougli  and  root  in  root — 
No  more  sky  (for  overbranching) 
At  your  head  than  at  your  foot— 
Oh,  the  wood  drew   me  within  it,    b}'  a  glamor  past 
dispute. 

Few  and  broken  paths  showed  through  it. 
Where  the  sheep  had  tried  to  run — 
Forced  with  snoAvy  wool  to  strew  it 
Round  the  thickets,  when  anon 
They,  witli  silly  thorn-pricked  noses,  bleated  back  into 
the  sun. 

But  my  childish  heart  beat  stronger 
Than  those  tliickets  dared  to  grow: 
/  could  pierce  them  !  /  could  longer 
Travel  on,  methought,  than  so. 
Sheep    for   sheep-paths !    braver    children   climb    and 
creep  where  liiey  would  go. 

And  the  poets  wander,  said  I, 
Over  places  all  as  rude. 
Bold  Kinaldo's  lovely  lady 
Sate  to  meet  him  in  a  wood. 
Rosalinda,  like  a  fountain,  laughed  out  pure  with  soli- 
tude. 

And  if  Chaucer  had  not  travelled 
Through  a  forest  by  a  well. 
He  had  never  dreamt  nor  marvelled 
At  those  ladies  fair  and  fell 
Who  lived   smiling  without    loving   in    their    island 
catidel. 

♦  The  Malvern  Hills  Of  Worcestershire  are  the  scene  of  Lang- 
lande's  visions,  and  thus  present  the  earliest  classic  ground  of 
English  poetry. 


358  THE     LOST     BOWEB. 

Thus  I  thought  of  the  old  singers, 
And  took  courage  from  their  song, 
Till  my  little  struggling  fingers 
Tore  asunder  g3'vc  and  thong 
Of  the  brambles  which  entrapped  me,  and  the  barrier 
branches  strong. 

On  a  daj%  such  pastime  keeping, 
With  a  fawn's  heart  debonair. 
Under-crawling,  overleaping 
Thorns  that  prick  and  boughs  that  bear, 
I  stood  suddenly  astonied — I  was  gladdened  unaware. 

From  the  place  I  stood  in,  floated 
Back  the  covert  dim  and  close, 
And  the  open  ground  was  coated 
Carpet-smooth  with  grass  and  moss,- 
And  the  blue-bell's  jjurple  presence  signed  it  worthily 
across. 

Here  a  linden-tree  stood,  brightning 
All  adown  its  silver  rind  ; 
For  as  some  trees  draw  the  lightning, 
So  this  tree,  mito  my  mind, 
Drew  to  earth  the  blessed  sunshine  from  the  sky  where 
it  was  shrined. 

Tall  the  linden-tree,  and  near  it 
An  old  hawthorn  also  grew ; 
And  wood-ivy  like  a  spirit 
Hovered  dimly  round  the  two, 
Shaping  thence  that  bower  of  beauty  which  I  sing  of 
thus  to  3'ou. 

'Twas  a  bower  for  jrarden  fitter 
Than  for  an}-  woodland  wide. 
Though  a  fresh  and  dewy  glitter 
Struck  it  through  from  side  to  side, 
Shaped  and  shaven  was  the  freshness,  as  by  garden- 
cunning  plied. 

Oh,  a  lady  might  have  come  there, 
Hooded  fairl}'  like  her  hawk, 
With  a  book  or  lute  in  summer. 
And  a  hope  of  sweeter  talk — 
Listening  les«  to  her  own  music  than  for  footsteps  on 
the  walk 


THE      LOST     BOWER.  359 

But  tliat  bower  appeared  a  marvel 
In  the  wildness  of  the  place  ; 
With  such  seeming  art  and  travail, 
Finely  fixed  and  fitted  was 
Leaf  to  leaf,  the  dark-green  ivy,  to  the  summit  from 
the  base. 

And  the  ivj"-  veined  and  gloss}' 
Was  enwrought  with  eglantine  ; 
And  the  wild  hop  fibred  closely, 
And  the  large-leaved  columbine. 
Arch  of  door  and  window  mulliou,  did  right  sylvanly 
entwine. 

Rose-trees  either  side  the  door  were 
Growing  lithe  and  growing  tall, 
Each  one  set  a  summer  warder 
For  the  keeping  of  the  hall — 
With  a  red  rose  and  a  white  rose,  leaning,  nodding  at 
the  wall. 

As  I  entered — mosses  hushing 
Stole  all  noises  from  my  foot ; 
And  a  green  elastic  cushion, 
Clasped  Avithin  the  linden's  root. 
Took  me  in^  chair  of  silence  very  rare  and  absolute. 

All  the  floor  was  paved  with  glory. 
Greenly,  silently  inlaid, 
(Through  quick  motions  made  before  me) 
With  fair  counterparts  in  shade 
Of  the  fair  serrated  ivy-leaves  which  slanted  overhead 

"  Is  such  pavement  in  a  palace  ?" 
So  I  questioned  in  my  thought. 
The  sun,  shining  through  the  chalice 
Of  the  red  rose  hung  without. 
Threw  within  a  red   libation,  like  an  answer  to  my 
doubt. 

At  the  same  time,  on  the  linen 
Of  my  childish  lap  tiiere  fell 
Two  white  May-leaves,  downward  winning 
Through  the  ceiling's  miracle. 
From  a  blossom,  like  an  angel,  out  of  sight  yet  bless* 
iug  well. 

Down  to  floor  and  up  to  ceiling 
Quick  I  turned  my  childish  face. 


360  THE     LOST     BOWER, 

With  an  innocent  appealing 
For  the  secret  of  the  place 
To  the  trees,  which  surely  knew  it,  in  partaking  of  the 
grace. 

Where's  no  foot  of  human  creature. 
How  could  reach  a  human  hand  ? 
And  if  this  be  work  of  nature, 
Why  has  nature  turned  so  bland, 
Breaking  off  from  other  wild  work  ?     It  was  hard  to 
understand. 

Was  she  weary  of  rough-doing — 
Of  the  bramble  and  the  thorn  ? 
Did  she  pause  in  tender  rueing 
Here  of  all  her  sylvan  scorn  ? 
Or,  in  mock  of  art's  deceiving,  was  the  sudden  mild- 
ness worn  ? 

Or  could  this  same  bower  (I  fancied) 
Be  the  work  of  Dryad  strong, 
Who,  surviving  all  that  chanced 
In  the  world's  old  pagan  wrong, 
Lay  hid,  feeling  in  the  woodland  on  the  last  true  poet's 
song  ? 

Or  was  this  the  house  of  fairies, 
Left,  because  of  the  rough  ways, 
Unassoiled  by  Ave  Mar3's 
Which  the  passing  pilgrim  prays, 
And  bej'ond  St.  Catherine's  chiming  on  the  blessed 
Sabbath. da^'S  ? 

So,  young  muser,  I  sat  listening 
To  my  fancy's  wildest  word. 
On  a  sudden,  through  the  glistening 
Leaves  around,  a  little  stirred, 
Came  a  sound,  a  sense  of  music,  which  was  rather  fcU 
than  heard. 

Softly,  Gnely,  it  inwound  me ; 
From  the  world  it  shut  me  in — 
Like  a  fountain,  falling  round  me. 
Which  with  silver  waters  thin 
Clips  a  little  water  Naiad  sitting  smilinglj^  within. 

Whence  the  music  came,  who  knoweth  ? 
/  know  nothing.     But  indeed 


THE  LOST  BOWEfi. 


THE     LOST     BOWER.  861 

Pan  or  Faunus  never  bloweth 
So  much  sweetness  from  a  reed 
Which   has  sucked  the  milk  of  waters  at  the  oldest 
river-head. 

Never  lark  the  sun  can  waken 
With  such  sweetness  I  when  the  lark, 
The  high  planets  overtaking 
In  the  half-evanished  Dark, 
Casts  his  singing  to  their  singing,  like  an  arrow  to  the 
mark. 

Never  nightingale  so  singeth. 
Oh,  she  leans  on  thorny  tree, 
And  her  poet-song  she  flingeth 
Over  pain  to  victory  1 
Yet  she  never  sings  such  music — or  she  sings  it  not  to 
me. 

Never  blackbirds,  never  thrushes. 
Nor  small  finches  sing  as  sweet, 
When  the  sun  strikes  through  the  bushes 
To  their  crimson  clinging  feet, 
And  their  pretty  eyes  look  sideways  to  the  summer 
heavens  complete. 

If  it  were  a  bird,  it  seemed, 
Most  like  Chaucer's,  which,  in  sooth, 
He  of  green  and  azure  dreamed. 
While  it  sat  in  spirit-ruth 
On  that  bier  of  a  crowned  lady,  singing  nigh  her  silent 
mo  Jth. 

If  it  were  a  bird  ! — ah,  sceptic, 
Give  me  "  yea  "  or  give  me  "  nay  " — 
Though  my  soul  were  njnnpholeptic, 
As  I  heard  that  virelay, 
You  may  stoop  your  pride  to  pardon,  for  my  sin  is  far 
away. 

I  rose  up  in  exaltation 
And  inward  trembling  heat. 
And  (it  seemed)  in  geste  of  passion 
Dropped  the  music  to  my  feet 
Like  a  garment  rustling  downwards  1 — such  a  silence 
followed  it. 

Heart  and  head  beat  through  the  quiet 
Full  and  heavily,  though  slower. 
31 


362  THE     LOST     BOWER. 

In  the  song,  I  think,  and  by  it, 
M3^stic  Presences  of  power 
Had  up-snatched  uie  to  the  Timeless,  then  returned  tae 
to  the  Hour. 

In  a  child-abstraction  lifted, 
Straightway  from  the  bower  I  past, 
Foot  and  soul  being  diml3'  drifted 
Through  the  greenwood,  till,  at  last, 
In  the  hill-top's  open  sunshine  I  all  consciously  was 
cast. 

Face  to  face  with  the  true  mountains 
I  stood  silently  and  still, 
Drawing  strength  from  fancj^'s  dauntings. 
From  the  air  about  the  hill, 
And  from  Nature's  open  mercies,  and  most  debonaii 
good-will. 

Oh,  the  golden-hearted  daisies 
Witnessed  there,  before  my  youth, 
To  the  truth  of  things  with  praises 
Of  the  beauty  of  the  truth, 
And  I   woke  to  Nature's   real,  laughing  joyfully   for 
both. 

And  I  said  within  me,  laughing, 
I  have  found  a  bower  to-day, 
A  green  lusus — fashioned  half  in 
Chance,  and  half  in  Nature's  play — 
And    a    little    bird   sings  nigh   it,  1  will   neverniore 
missa}'. 

Henceforth  I  will  be  the  fairy 
Of  this  bower  not  built  by  one  ; 
I  will  go  there,  sad  or  merr^', 
With  each  morning's  benison. 
And  the  bird  shall  be  my  harper  in  the  dream-hall   I 
have  won. 

So  I  said.     But  the  next  morning, 
f — Child,  look  up  into  my  face — 
'Ware,  oh  sceptic,  of  your  scorning  ! 
This  is  truth  in  its  pure  grace  !) 
The  next  morning,  all  had  vanished,  or  m}"  wandering 

missed  the  place. 

Bring  an  oath  most  sylvan  holy. 
And  upon  it  swear  me  true — 


THE     LOST     BOWER.  363 

By  the  wind-bells  swinging  slowly 
Their  mute  curfews  in  the  dew, 
By  the  advent  of  the  snow-drop,  by  the  rosemary  and 
rue — 

1  affirm  by  all  or  any, 
Let  the  cause  be  charm  or  chance, 
That  my  wandering  searches  many 
Missed  the  power  of  my  romance — 
TJiat  I  nevermore,  upon  it,  turned  my  mortal  counter 
nance. 

I  affirm  that,  since  I  lost  it, 
Never  bower  has  seemed  so  fair ; 
Never  Garden-creeper  crossed  it, 
AVith  so  deft  and  brave  an  air — 
Never  bird  sung  in  the  summer,  as  I  saw  and  heard 
them  there. 

Day  by  day,  with  new  desire. 
Toward  my  Avood  I  ran  in  faith, 
Under  leaf  and  over  brier, 
Through  the  thickets,  out  of  breath — • 
Like  the  prince  who  rescued  Beauty  from  the  sleep  as 
long  as  death. 

But  his  sword  of  mettle  clashed. 
And  liis  arm  smote  strong,  I  ween, 
And  lier  dreaming  spirit  flashed 
Through  lier  body's  fair  white  screen, 
And  the  light   thei-eof  might  guide   him  up  the  cedar 
alleys  green. 

But  for  me,  I  saw  no  splendor — • 
All  my  sword  was  my  child-heart ; 
And  the  wood  refused  surrender 
Of  that  bower  it  held  apart, 
Safe  as  (Edipus's  grave-place,   'mid    Colone's    olives 
swart. 

As  Aladdin  sought  the  basements 
His  fair  palace  rose  upon. 
And  the  four-and-twent_y  casements 
Which  gave  answers  to  the  sun  : 
Bo,  in  wilderment  of  gazing  I  looked  up,  and  I  looked 
down. 

Years  have  vanished  since  as  wholly 
As  the  little  bower  did  then 


THE     LOST     BOWER. 

And  you  call  it  tender  folly 
That  such  thoughts  should  come  again  ? 
Ah,  I  cannot  change  this  sighing  for  your   smiling, 

brother  men ! 

For  this  loss  it  did  prefigure 
Other  loss  of  better  good, 
When  ray  soul,  in  spirit-vigor, 
And  in  ripened  womanhood. 
Fell  from  visions  of  more  beauty  than  an  arbor  in  a 
wood. 

I  have  lost — oh,  man3'^  a  pleasure. 
Many  a  hope,  and  many  a  power — 
Studious  health,  and  merry  leisure, 
The  first  dew  on  the  first  flower  1 
But  the  first  of  all  my  losses  was  the  losing  of  the 
bower. 

I  have  lost  the  dream  of  Doing, 
And  the  other  dream  of  Done, 
The  first  spring  in  the  pursuing, 
The  first  pride  in  the  Begun — 
First  recoil  from  incompletion,  in  the  face  of  what  is 
won — 

Exaltations  in  the  far  light 
Where  some  cottage  only  is; 
Mild  dejections  in  the  starlight. 
Which  the  sadder-hearted  miss  ; 
And    the   child-cheek   blushing   scarlet   for  the  very 
shame  of  bliss. 

I  have  lost  the  sound  child-sleeping 
Which  the  thunder  could  not  break ; 
Something  too  of  the  strong  leaping 
Of  the  stag-like  heart  awake. 
Which  the  pale  is  low  for  keeping  in  the  road  it  ought 
to  take. 

Some  respect  to  social  fictions 
Has  been  also  lost  by  me  ; 
And  some  generous  genuflexions, 
Which  my  spirit  ofi'ered  free 
To  the  pleasant  old  conventions  of  our  false  humanity 

All  my  losses  did  I  tell  you. 

Ye,  perchance,  would  look  away  ; — 


THE     LOST     BOWEIl,  365 

Ye  would  answer  me,  "  Farewell !  3'ou 
Make  sad  comjiany  to-day, 
And  your  tears  are  falling  faster  than  the  bitter  words 
you  say." 

For  God  placed  me  like  a  dial 
In  the  open  ground  with  power, 
And  ni}'  heart  had  for  its  trial, 
All  the  sun  and  all  the  shower  I 
And  I  suffered  many  losses — and  my  first  was  of  the 
bower. 

Laugh  you  ?     If  that  loss  of  mine  be 
Of  no  heavy-seeming  weight — 
When  the  cone  falls  from  the  pine-tree, 
The  young  children  laugh  thereat ; 
Yet  the  wind  that  struck  it,  riseth,  and  the  tempest 
shall  be  great. 

One  who  knew  me  in  my  childhood 
In  the  glamor  and  the  game, 
Looking  on  me  long  and  mild,  would 
Never  know  me  for  the  same. 
Come,  unchanging  recollections,  where  those  changes 
overcame. 

By  this  couch  I  weaklj^  lie  on. 
While  I  count  my  memories — 
Through  the  fingers  which,  still  sighing, 
I  i^ress  closely  on  mine  eyes — 
Clear   as   once   beneath   the   sunshine,  I  behold    the 
bower  arise. 

Springs  the  linden-tree  as  greenly, 
Stroked  with  light  adown  its  rind  ; 
And  the  ivy -leaves  serenely 
Each  in  either  entertwined  ; 
And  the  rose-trees  at  the  doorway,  they  have  neither 
g"own  nor  pined. 

From  those  overblown  faint  roses 
Not  a  leaf  ajipeareth  shed. 
And  that  little  bud  discloses 
Not  a  thorn's-breadth  more  of  red 
For  the  winters  and  the  summers  which  have  passed 
me  overhead. 

And  that  music  overfloweth. 
Sudden  sweet,  the  sylvan  eaves 
31* 


866  A     SONG     AGAINST     SINGING. 

Thrush  or  nightingale — who  knoweth  ? 
Fa}"^  or  Faunas — who  believes  ? 
But  my  heart  still  trembles  in  me.  to  the  trembling  of 
the  leaA'es. 

Is  the  bower  lost,  then  ?  who  sayeth 
That  the  bower  indeed  is  lost  ? 
Hark  !  my  spirit  in  it  pra3'eth 
Through  the  sunshine  and  the  frost — 
And  the  prayer  preserves  it  greenly,  to  the  last  and 
uttermost. 

Till  another  open  for  me 
In  God's  Eden-land  unknown,     . 
With  an  angel  at  the  doorway, 
White  with  gazing  at  His  Throne, 
And  a  saint's  voice  in  the  palm-trees,  singing — "  AIJ 
is  lost  .  .  .  and  won  I 


A  SONG  AGAINST  SINGING 

TO   E.    J.    H. 

They  bid  me  sing  to  thee, 
Thou  golden-haired  and  silver-voiced  child — 
With  lips  by  no  worse  sigh  than  sleep's  defiled, 
With  eyes  unknowing  how  tears  dim  the  sight, 
And  feet  all  trembling  at  the  new  delight 

Treaders  of  earth  to  be  1 

Ah  no  !  the  lark  may  bring 
A  song  to  thee  from  out  the  morning  cloud, 
The  merry  river  from  its  lilies  bowed. 
The  brisk  rain  from  the  trees,  the  lucky  wind, 
That  half  doth  make  its  music,  half  doth  find- 
But  I — I  may  not  sing. 

How  could  I  think  it  right, 
New-comer  on  our  earth  as,  Sweet,  thou  art, 
To  bring  a  verse  from  out  an  human  heart 
Made  heavy  with  accumulated  tears. 
And  cross  with  such  amount  of  weary  years 

Thy  day-sum  of  delight  ? 


WINE     OF     CYPRUS.  ,367 

E\'en  if  the  verse  -were  said, 
Thon,  who  wouhlst  clap  thy  tin_v  hands  to  hear 
The  wind  or  rain,  gay  bird  or  liver  clear, 
Wouldst,  at  that  sound  of  sad  humanities, 
Upturn  thy  bright  uncomprehending  ej'^es 

And  bid  me  play  instead. 

Therefore  no  song  of  mine — 
But  prayer  in  place  of  singing;  prayer  that  would 
Commend  thee  to  the  new-creating  God, 
WhDse  gift  is  childhood's  heart  without  its  stain 
Of  weakness,  ignorance,  and  changing  vain — 

That  gift  of  God  be  thine  ! 

So  wilt  thou  aye  be  young. 
In  lovelier  childhood  than  thy  shining  brow 
And  pretty  winning  accents  make  thee  now. 
Yea,  sweeter  than  this  scarce  articulate  sound 
(How  sweet !)  of  "  fiither,"  "  mother,"  shall  be  found 

The  Abba  on  thy  tongue. 

And  so,  as  3'^ears  shall  chase 
Each  other's  shadows,  thou  wilt  less  resemble 
Thy  fellows  of  the  earth  who  toil  and  tremble, 
Than  him  thou  seest  not,  thine  angel  bold 
Yet  meek,  whose  ever-lifted  eyes  behold 

The  Ever-loving's  face. 


WINE  OF  CYPRUS. 

aiVEN   TO    ME    BY    H.  S.  BOYD,  AUTHOR   OP    "SELECT   PA» 
SAGES  FROM  THE  GREEK  FATHERS,"  ETC., 
TO    WHOM    THESE    STANZAS   ARE    ADDRESSED. 

If  old  Bacchus  were  the  speaker 

He  would  tell  you  with  a  sigh, 
Of  the  Cyprus  in  this  beaker 

I  am  sipping  like  a  fly — 
Like  a  fl}'  or  gnat  on  Ida 

At  the  hour  of  goblet-pledge, 
By  queen  Juno  brushed  aside,  a 

Full  white  arm-sweep,  from  the  edge. 


868  WINE     OF     CYPRUS. 

Sooth,  the  drinking  should  be  ampler 

When  the  drink  is  so  divine, 
And  some  deep-mouthed  Greek  exampler 

Would  become  _your  Cyprus  wine. 
Cyclop's  mouth  might  plunge  aright  in, 

While  his  one  eye  over-leered — 
Nor  too  large  were  mouth  of  Titan, 

Drinking  rivers  down  his  heard. 

Pan  might  dip  his  head  so  deep  in, 

That  his  ears  alone  pricked  out. 
Fawns  around  him,  pressing,  leaping, 

Each  one  pointing  to  his  throat": 
While  the  Naiads,  like  Bacchantes, 

Wild,  with  urns  thrown  out  to  waste, 
Cry — "  0  earth,  that  thou  wouldst  grant  as 

Springs  to  keep,  of  such  a  taste  !" 

But  for  me,  I  am  not  worthy 

After  gods  and  Greeks  to  drink. 
And  my  lips  are  pale  and  earthy 

To  go  bathing  from  this  brink. 
Since  3'ou  heard  them  speak  the  last  time. 

They  have  faded  from  their  blooms. 
And  the  laughter  of  my  pastime 

Has  learnt  silence  at  the  tombs. 

Ah,  my  friend  !  the  antique  drinkers 

Crowned  the  cup  and  crowned  the  brow. 
Can  I  answer  the  old  thinkers 

In  the  forms  they  thought  of,  now  ? 
Who  will  fetch  from  garden-closes 

Some  new  garlands  while  I  speak, 
That  the  forehead,  crowned  with  roses, 

May  strike  scarlet  down  the  cheek  ? 

Do  not  mock  me  !  with  my  mortal. 

Suits  no  w'reath  again,  indeed. 
I  am  sad-voiced  as  the  turtle 

Which  Anacreon  used  to  feed. 
Yet  as  that  same  bird  demurely 

Wet  her  beak  in  cup  of  his. 
So,  without  a  garland,  surely 

I  may  touch  the  brim  of  this. 

Go — let  others  praise  the  Chian  i — 

This  is  soft  as  Muses'  string. 
This  is  tawny  as  Rhea's  lion, 

This  is  rapid  as  his  spring. 


WINE     OF     CYPRUS  5<«9 

Bright  as  Paphia's  eyes  e'er  met  us, 

Light  as  ever  trod  her  feet ! 
And  tlie  brown  bees  of  Ilymettus 

Make  their  hone}^  not  so  sweet. 

Very  copious  are  my  praises, 

Though  I  sip  it  like  a  fly  ! — 
Ah — but,  sipping — times  and  places 

Change  before  me  suddenly. 
As  Ul^'sses'  old  libation 

Drew  the  ghosts  from  every  part, 
So  your  Cyprus  wine,  dear  Grecian, 

Stirs  the  Hades  of  my  heart. 

And  I  think  of  those  long  mornings 

Which  my  tiiought  goes  fiir  to  seek. 
When,  betwixt  the  folio's  turnings. 

Solemn  flowed  the  rhythmic  Greek. 
Past  the  pane  the  mountain  spreading, 

Swept  the  sheep-bell's  tinkling  noise, 
While  a  girlish  voice  was  reading. 

Somewhat  low  for  at  s  and  oi  s. 

Then,  what  golden  hours  were  for  us! — 

While  we  sat  together  there. 
How  the  white  vests  of  the  chorus 

Seemed  to  wave  up  a  live  air  1 
How  the  cothurns  trod  majestic 

Down  the  deep  iambic  lines. 
And  the  rolling  anaprestic 

Curled  like  vapor  over  shrines  ! 

Oh,  our  J^sehylus,  the  thunderous  ! 

How  he  drove  the  bolted  breath 
Through  the  cloud,  to  wedge  it  ponderous 

In  the  gnarled  oak  beneath. 
Oh,  our  Sophocles,  the  roj-al. 

Who  was  born  to  monarch's  place, 
And  who  made  the  whole  world  loyal, 

Less  bj'  kingl}^  power  than  grace. 

Our  Euripides,  the  human, 

With  his  droppings  of  warm  tears, 
And  his  touches  of  things  common 

Till  the}'  rose  to  touch  the  spheres  1 
Our  Theocritus,  our  Bion, 

And  our  Pindar's  shining  goals  ! — 
These  were  cup-bearers  undying, 

Of  the  wine  that's  meant  for  souls. 
Y 


8T0  WINE     OF     CYPRUS. 

And  m^'  Plato,  the  divine  one, 

If  men  know  the  gods  aright 
By  their  motions  as  thej^  shine  on 

With  a  glorious  trail  of  light! — 
And  yonr  noble  Christian  bishops, 

Who  mouthed  grandly  the  last  Greek  1 
Though  the  sponges  on  their  hyssops 

Were  distent  with  wine — too  weak. 

Yet,  your  Chrysostom,  you  praised  him 

Asa  liberal  mouth  of  gold  ; 
And  your  Basil,  you  upraised  him 

To  the  height  of  speakers  old. 
And  we  both  praised  Heliodorus 

For  his  secret  of  pure  lies — 
Who  forged  first  his  linked  stories 

In  the  heat  of  lady's  eyes. 

And  we  both  praised  your  Synesius 

For  the  tire  shot  up  his  odes. 
Though  the  Church  was  scarce  propitious 

As  he  whistled  dogs  and  gods. 
And  we  both  praised  Xazianzen 

For  the  fervid  heart  and  speech. 
Only  I  eschewed  his  glancing 

At  the  lyre  hung  out  of  reach. 

Do  you  mind  that  deed  of  Ate 

Which  you  bound  me  to  so  fast- 
Heading  "  De  Virgin itate," 

From  the  first  line  to  the  last  ? 
How  I  said  at  ending,  solemn. 

As  I  turned  and  looked  at  you 
That  St   Simeon  on  the  column 

Had  had  somewhat  less  to  do  ? 

For  we  sometimes  gently  wrangled, 

Yery  gently,  be  it  said. 
Since  our  thoughts  were  disentangled 

By  no  breaking  of  the  thread  1 
And  I  charged  you  with  extortions 

On  the  nobler  fames  of  old — 
Ay,  and  sometimes  thought  your  Forsons 

Stained  the  purple  they  would  fold. 

For  the  rest — a  mystic  moaning, 
Kept  Cassandra  at  the  gate, 

With  wild  eyes  the  vision  shone  in, 
And  wide  nostrils  scenting  fate. 


WINE     OF     CYPRUS.  37) 

And  Prometheus,  bound  in  passion 
By  brute  Force  to  the  blind  stone, 

Showed  us  looks  of  invocation 
Turned  to  ocean  and  the  sun. 

And  Medea  Ave  saw  burninp" 

At  her  nature's  planted  stake  : 
And  proud  tEdipns  late-scorning 

While  the  cloud  came  on  to  break- 
While  the  cloud  came  on  slow — slower, 

Till  he  stood  discrowned,  resigned  ! — 
But  the  reader's  voice  dropped  lower 

When  the  poet  called  him  blind. 

Ah,  my  gossip  !  you  were  older, 

And  more  learned,  and  a  man  ! — • 
Yet  that  shadow,  the  enfolder 

Of  your  quiet  eyelids,  ran 
Both  our  spirits  to  one  level. 

And  I  turned  from  hill  and  lea 
And  the  summer-sun's  green  revel, 

To  your  eyes  that  could  not  see. 

Now  Christ  bless  you  with  the  one  light 

Which  goes  shining  night  and  day  1 
Ma}'  the  flowers  which  grow  in  sunlight 

Shed  their  fragrance  in  your  way  I 
Is  it  not  right  to  remember 

All  3'our  kindness,  fViend  of  mine 
When  we  two  sat  in  the  chamber 

And  the  poets  poured  us  wine  ? 

So,  to  come  back  to  the  drinking 

Of  this  Cyprus — it  is  well, 
But  those  memories,  to  my  thinking 

Make  a  better  oenomel ; 
And  whoever  be  the  speaker, 

None  can  murmur  with  a  sigh. 
That,  in  drinking  from  that  beaker, 

I  am  sipping  like  a  fly. 


372  A     RHAPSODY     OF 


A  KHAPSODY  OF  LIFE'S  PROGRESS. 

"Fill  all  the  stops  of  life  with  tuneful  breath  " 

Poems  ox  Man,  by  Couxelius  Mathems  * 

We  are  borne  into  life — it  is  sweet,  it  is  stranoe. 
We  lie  still  on  the  knee  of  a  mild  JNIysterj-, 

Which  smiles  with  a  change ! 
But  we  doubt  not  of  changes,  we  know  not  of  spaces, 
The  Heavens  seem  as  near  as  our  own  mother's  face  is, 
And  we   think  we  could    touch  all  the  stars   that  wo 

see ; 
And  the  milk  of  our  mother  is  white  on  our  moulh  • 
And,  with  small  childish  hands,  we  are  turning  around 
The  apple  of  Life  which  another  has  found  ; 
Jt  is  warm  with  our  touch,  not  with  sun  of  the  south 
And  we  count,  as  we  turn  it,  the  red  side  for  four 
0  Life,  O  Beyond, 
Thou  art  sweet,  thou  art  strange  evermore. 

Then  all  things  look  strange  in  the  pure  golden  iT?ther : 
We  Avalk  through  the  gaulens  with  hamis  linked  to 
gether. 

And  the  lilies  look  large  as  tiie  trees; 
And  as  loud  as  the  birds,  sing  tlie  bloom-loving  bees. 
And  the  birds  sing  like  angels,  so  mystical-fine^, 
And  the  cedars  are  brushing  the  archangel's  feet 
And  time  is  eternit}',  love  is  divine, 

And  the  world  is  complete. 
Now,  God  bless  the  child — father,  mother,  respond  I 
O  Life,  O  Beyond, 
Thou  art  strange,  thou  art  sweet. 

Then  we  leap  on  the  earth  with  the  armor  of  youth, 

And  the  earth  rings  again. 
And  we  breathe  out,   "  0  beauty," — we  cry  out   "  0 

truth," 
And  the  bloom  of  our  lips  drops  with  wine. 
And  our  blood  runs  amazed  'neath  the  calm  hyaline, 
The  earth  cleaves  to  the  foot,  the  sun   burns  to  the 

brain — 


*  A  small  volume,  by  an  American  poet — as  remarkable  in 
thought  and  manner  for  a  vital  sinewy  vigor,  as  the  rio-bt  arm  of 
Pathfinder.— 1844. 


ljfe's    progress.  37d 

What  is  the  exultation?  and  what  this  despair? — 
The  strong  pleasure  is  smiting  the  nerves  into  pain 
And  we  droi)  from  tlie  Fair  as  we  climb  to  the  Fair, 

And  \ve  lie  in  a  trance  at  its  feet ; 
And  the  breath  of  an  anjrel  cold-piercing  the  air 

Breathes  fresh  on  our  laces  in  swoon, 
And  we  think  him  so  near  he  is  tliis  side  the  sun, 
And  we  wake  to  a  whisper  self- murmured  and  fond, 
0  Life,  O  Beyond, 

Thou  art  strange,  thou  art  sweet  I 

And  the  winds  and  the  waters  in  pastoral  measures 
Go  winding  around  us,  with  roll  upon  roll, 
Till  the  soul  lies  within  a  circle  of  pleasures 

Which  hideth  tlie  soul. 
And  we   run  with   the    stag,    and   we    leap  with  the 

horse, 
And  we  swim  with  the  fish  through  the  broad  water- 
course, 
And  we  strike  with  the  falcon,   and   hunt  with  the 

hound, 
And  the  joy  which  is  in  us,  flies  out  by  a  wound. 
And  we  shout  so  aloud,  "  We  exult,  we  rejoice," 
That  we  lose  the  low  moan  of  our  brothers  around. 
And  we  shout  so  adeep  down  creation's  profound. 

We  are  deaf  to  God's  voice. 
And  we  bind  the  rose-,<>arland  on  forehead  and  ears, 

Yet  we  are  not  ashamed, 
And  the  dew  of  the  roses  that  runneth  unblamed 
Down  our  cheeks,  is  not  taken  for  tears. 
Help  us,   God,   trust  us,   man,   love  us,  woman  !  "  T 

hold 
Th}'  small   head   in  my  hands — witli   its  grapelets  of 

gold 
Growing   bright   through  my   fingers — like  altar  foi 

oath, 
'Neath  the  vast  golden  spaces  like  witnessing  faces 
That  watch  the  eternity  strong  in  the  troth — 
I  love  thee,  I  leave  thee, 
I  live  for  thee,  die  for  thee ! 
I  prove  thee,  deceive  thee, 
Undo  evermore  thee  ! 
Tlelp  me,  God,  slay  me,  man  ! — one  is  mourning  for 

both." 
And  we  stand  up  though  young  near  the  funeral-sheet 
Which  covers  the  Caesar  and  old  Pharamond, 
32 


374  A     RHAPSODY     OF 

And  death  is  so  nigh  us,  life  cools  from  its  heat. 
O  Life,  0  Beyond, 
A7't  thou  fair — art  thou  sweet  ? 

Then  we  can  act  to  a  purpose — we  spring  up  erect. 
We  will  tame   the   wild    mouths    of    the   wilderness' 

steeds, 
We  will   plough  up  the   deep  in    the   ship's  /double- 

decked, 
We  will  build  the  great  cities,  and  do  the  great  deeds 
Strike  the  steel  upon  steel,  strike  the  soul  upon  soul. 
Strike  the  dole  on  the  weal,  overcoming  the  dole. 
Let  the  cloud  meet  the  cloud  in  a  grand  thunder  roll ! 
"  While  the  eagle  of  Thought  rides  the   tempest    in 

scorn, 
Who  cares  if  the  lightning  is  burning  the  corn  ? 
Let  us  sit  on  the  thrones 
In  a  purple  sublimity, 
And  grind  down  men's  bones 
To  a  pale  unanimity. 
Speed    me,    God ! — save    me,    man  ! — I    am  god  o\er 

men — 
When  I  speak  in  my  cloud,  none  shall  answer  again. 
'Xeath  the  stripe  and  the  bond. 

Lie  and  mourn  at  my  feet !" — 
0  thou  Life,  0  Be^-ond, 

Thou  art  strange,  thou  art  sweet ! 

Then  we  grow  into  thought — and  with  inw^ard  ascen- 
sions 

Touch  the  bounds  of  our  Being. 
We  lie  in  the  dark  here,  swathed  doubly  around 
With  our  sensual  relations  and  social  conventions. 
Yet  are  'ware  of  a  sight,  yet  are  'ware  of  a  sound 

Beyond  hearing  and  Seeing — 
Are  aware  that  a  Hades  rolls  deep  on  all  sides 

With  its  infinite  tides 
About  and  above  us — until  the  strong  arch 
Of  our  life  creaks  and  bends  as  if  ready  for  falling, 
And  through  tlie  dim  rolling,  we  hear  the  sweet  calling 
Of  spirits  that  speak  in  a  soft  under-tongue 

The  sense  of  the  mj'stical  march. 
And  we  cry  to  them  softly,  "  Come  nearei-,  come  nearer, 
And  lift  up  the  lap  of  this  Dark,  and  speak  clearer, 

And  teach  us  the  song  that  ye  sung." 
And  we  smile  in  our  thought  if  they  answer  or  no, 
For  to  dream  of  a  sweetness  is  sweet  as  to  know 


life's    prog u ess 


875 


Wonders  breathe  in  our  face 
And  we  ask  not  their  name  ; 
Love  takes  all  the  blame 
Of  the  world's  prison-place. 
And  we  sung  back  the  songs  as  we  guess  them,  aloud  ; 
And  we  send  up  the  lark  of  our  music  that  cuts 

TJntired  through  the  cloud, 
To  beat  with  its  wings  at  the  lattice  Heaven  shuts: 
Yet  the  angels  look  down  and  the  mortals  look  up 

As  the  little  wings  beat, 
And  the  poet  is  blessed  with  their  pity  or  hope. 
'Twixt  the  heavens  and  the  earth  can  a  poet  despond  'f 
0  Life,  0  Be3ond, 
Thou  art  strange  thou  art  sweet ! 

Then    we    wring    from    our    souls    their    applicative 

strength. 
And  bend  to  the  cord  the  strong  bow  of  our  ken, 
And  bringing  our  lives  to  the  level  of  others 
Hold  the  cup  we  have  filled,  to  their  uses  at  length 
'  Help   me,   God  !  love   me,  man  !  I  am   man  among 

men, 

And  my  life  is  a  pledi^e 
Of  the  ease  of  another's  !  " 
From  the  fire  and  the  water  we  drive  out  the  steam 
With  a  rush  and  a  roar  and  the  speed  of  a  dream  ; 
And  tiie  car  without  horses  the  car  without  wings 
Roars  onward  and  flies 
On  its  grey  iron  edge, 
'Neath  the  heat  of  a  Thought  sitting  still  in  our  eyes. 
And  our  hand  knots  in  air,  with  the  bridge  that  it 

flings, 
Two  peaks  far  disrupted  b}^  ocean  and  skies, 
And,  lifting  a  fold  of  the  smooth-flowing  Thames, 
Draws  under  the  world  with  its  turmoils  and  pothers. 
While   the  swans  float  on   softlj',  untouched  in  their 

calms 
By  humanity's  hum  at  the  root  of  the  springs. 
And  with  reachings  of  Thought  we  reach  down  to  the 

deeps 

Of  the  souls  of  our  brothers — 
We  teach  them  full  words  with  our  slow-moving  lips, 
"God,"  "  Liberty,"  "Truth,"— which  they  hearken  and 

think 
And  work  into  harraon}-,  link  upon  link, 


B76      A     RHAPSODY     OF     LIFE'S     PROGRESS. 

Till  the  silver  meets  round  the  earth  gelid  and  dense, 
Shedding  sparks  of  electric  responding  intense 

On  the  dark  of  eclipse. 
Then  we  hear  through  the  silence  and  glory  afar, 

As  from  shores  of  a  star 
In  aphelion,  the  new  generations  that  cry 
Disenthralled  by  our  voice  to  harmonious  reply, 

"  "God,"  "  Liberty,"  "  Truth  1  " 

We  are  glorious  forsooth — 

And  our  name  has  a  seat, 
Though  the  shroud  should  be  donned 

0  Life,  0  Beyond, 

Thou  art  strange,  thou  art  sweet  1 

Help  me,  God — help  me,  man !  I  am  low,  I  am  weak- 
Death  loosens  my  sinews  and  creeps  in  my  veins. 
My  body  is  cleft  b}'  these  wedges  of  pains 

From  my  spirit's  serene. 
And  I  feel  the  extern  and  insensate  creep  in 

On  my  organized  clay. 

1  sob  not,  nor  shriek. 
Yet  I  faint  fast  away  ! 

I    am    strong    in  the    spirit — deep-thoughted,   clear 

eyed — 
I  could  walk,  step  for  step,  with  an  angel  beside, 
On  the  heaven-heights  of  truth  ! 
Oh,  the  soul  keeps  its  youth, 
But  the  bod}-^  faints  sore,  it  is  tired  in  the  race, 
It  sinks  from  the  chariot  ere  reaching  the  goal, 
It  is  weak,  it  is  cold. 
The  rein  di'ops  from  its  hold — 
It  sinks  back,  with  the  death  in  its  face 
On,  chariot — on,  soul. 
Ye  are  all  the  more  fleet — 
Be  alone  at  the  goal 
Of  the  strange  and  the  sweet  1 

Love  us,  God,  love  us,  man  !  believe,  we  achieve — 
Let  us  love,  let  us  live. 
For  the  acts  correspond  ; 
We  are  glorious — and  Die  1 
And  again  on  the  knee  of  a  mild  M^'stery 
That  smiles  with  a  change. 
Here  we  lie. 
O  Death,  O  Beyond, 
Thou  art  sweet,  thou  art  strange  I 


A     LAY     OF     TUB     EARLY     ROSE.  371 


A  LAY  OF  THE   EARLY  ROSE. 


— — ^  "  discordance  that  can  accord." 

ROMAUNT    OP    THE     RoSi. 

A  ROSE  once  grew  within 

A  garden  April-green, 
In  her  loneness,  in  her  loneness, 
And  the  fairer  for  that  oneness. 

A  white  rose  delicate 

On  a  tall  bough  and  straight. 
Early  comer,  early  comer. 
Never  waiting  for  the  summer. 

Her  pretty  gestes  did  win 

South  winds  to  let  her  in. 
In  her  loneness,  in  her  loneness, 
All  the  fairer  for  that  oneness. 

"  For  if  I  wait,"  said  she, 

"  Till  time  for  roses  be — 
For  the  moss-rose  and  the  musk-rose, 
Maiden-blush  and  royal-dusk  rose — 

"  What  glorj'  then  for  me 

In  such  a  compuu}'  ? — 
Roses  plent3%  roses  plentj^ 
And  one  nightingale  for  twent\^  ? 

"Na}'-,  let  me  in,"  said  she, 

"  Before  the  rest  are  free — ■ 
In  my  loneness,  in  my  loneness. 
All  the  fairer  for  that  oneness. 

"  For  I  would  lonely  stand 

Uplifting  my  white  hand, 
On  a  mission,  on  a  mission. 
To  declare  the  coming  vision, 

"  Upon  which  lifted  sign, 

What  worship  will  be  mine  ? 
What  addressing,  what  caressing. 
And  what  thanks  and  praise  and  blessing  f 

"  A  windlike  joj'  will  rush 

Through  ever}^  tree  and  bush, 
Bending  softly  in  alfection. 
And  spontaneous  benediction. 
32* 


378  A     LAY      OF      THE      EARLY      KOSB 

"  Insects,  that  only  may 

Live  in  a  sun  bright  ray, 
To  my  whiteness,  to  my  whiteness, 
Shall  be  drawn,  as  to  a  brightness — 

"  And  every  moth  and  bee, 

Approach  me  reverently. 
Wheeling  o'er  me,  wheeling  o'er  me, 
Coronals  of  motioned  glory. 

"  Three  larks  shall  leave  a  cloud, 
To  my  whiter  beauty  vowed, 
Singing  gladly  all  the  moontide, 
Never  waiting  for  the  sun  tide. 

"  Ten  nightingales  shall  flee 
Their  woods  for  love  of  me, 
Singing  sadl}'  all  the  suntide, 
Never  waiting  for  the  moontide. 

"  I  ween  the  very  skies 
Will  look  down  with  surprise, 
When  low  on  earth  they  see  me 
With  my  starry  aspect  dreamy. 

"  And  earth  will  call  her  flowers 

To  hasten  out  of  doors; 
By  their  cuurtsies  and  sweet-smelling. 
To  give  grace  to  my  foretelling," 

So  pra^'ing,  did  she  win 
South  winds  to  let  her  in. 
In  her  loneness,  in  her  loneness, 
And  the  fairer  for  that  oneness. 

But  ah — alas  for  her! 

No  thing  did  minister 
To  her  praises,  to  her  praises, 
More  than  might  unto  a  daisy's. 

No  tree  nor  bush  was  seen 
To  boast  a  perfect  green, 
Scarcel^'^  having,  scarcely  having 
Oue  leaf  broad  enough  for  waving. 

The  little  flies  did  crawl 

Along  the  southern  wall, 
Faintly  shifting,  faintly  shifting 
Wings  scarce  long  enough  for  lifting. 


A     LAY     OF     THE     EARLY     ROSE.  379 

The  lark  too  liigb  or  low, 

I  ween,  did  miss  her  so, 
With  his  nest  down  in  the  gorses, 
And  his  song  in  the  star-courses. 

The  nightingale  did  please 

To  loiter  beyond  seas. 
Guess  him  in  tlie  Happy  islands, 
Learning  music  from  the  silence. 

Only  the  bee,  forsooth, 

Came  in  the  place  of  both, 
Doing  honor,  doing  honor 
To  the  honey-dews  upon  her. 

The  skies  looked  coldly  down 

As  on  a  royal  crown  ; 
Then  with  drop  for  drop,  at  leisure, 
The}'  began  to  rain  for  pleasure. 

Whereat  the  earth  did  seem 

To  waken  from  a  dream. 
Winter-frozen,  winter-frozen, 
Her  unquiet  eyes  unclosing — 

Said  to  the  Rose,  "  Ha,  Snow  I 

And  art  thou  fallen  so  ? 
Thou,  who  wast  enthroned  stately 
All  along  m}'  mountains  lately  ? 

"  Holloa,  thou  world-wide  snow  I 

Art  thou  wasted  so? 
With  a  little  bough  to  catch  thee. 
And  a  little  bee  to  watch  thee  ?" 

— Poor  Rose,  to  be  misknown  ! 

Would,  she  had  ne'er  been  blown, 
In  her  loneness,  in  her  loneness, 
All  the  sadder  for  that  oneness ! 

Some  word  she  tried  to  say, 

Some  710  ....  ah,  wellawa}^! 
But  the  passion  did  o'ercome  her, 
And  the  fair  frail  leaves  dropped  from  her. 

Dropped  from  her,  fair  and  mute, 

Close  to  a  poet's  foot. 
Who  beheld  them,  smiling  slowly. 
As  at  something  sad  yet  holy — 


380  A     LAY     OP     THE     EARLY     ROSl. 

Said,  "  Yeril}'  and  thus 

It  chances  too  with  us 
Poets,  singing  sweetest  snatches 
While  that  deaf  men  keep  the  Avatches*. 

"Taunting  to  come  before 

Our  own  age  evennorej 
In  a  loneness,  in  a  loneness, 
And  the  nobler  for  that  oneness. 

"  Holy  in  voice  and  heart, 

To  high  ends,  set  apart ! 
All  unmated,  all  unmated. 
Just  because  so  consecrated. 

"  But  if  alone  we  be, 

Where  is  our  empery  ? 
And  if  none  can  reach  our  stature, 
Wo  can  mete  our  lofty  nature  ? 

"  What  bell  will  yield  a  tone, 

Swung  in  the  air  alone? 
If  no  brazen  clapper  bringing, 
Who  can  hear  the  chimed  ringing? 

"  What  angel,  but  would  seem 
To  sensual  eyes,  ghost-dim  ? 

And  without  assimilation, 

Vain  is  inter-penetration. 

"  And  thus,  what  can  we  do, 

Poor  rose  and  poet  too. 
Who  both  antedate  our  mission 
In  an  unprepared  season  ? 

"  Drop  leaf — be  silent  song  ! 

Cold  thin  OS  we  come  among. 
We  must  warm  them,  we  must  warm  them, 
Ere  we  ever  hope  to  charm  them. 

"  Howbeit  "  (here  his  face 
Lightened  around  the  place — 
So  to  mark  the  outward  turning 
Of  his  spirit's  inward  burning). 

"  Something  it  is,  to  hold 

In  God's  worlds  manifold. 
First  revealed  to  creature-duty. 
Some  new  form  of  his  mild  beauty. 


A     LAY     OF     THE     EARLY     ROSE.  381 

Whether  tliat  form  respect 

The  sense  or  intellect, 
Holy  be  in  mood  or  meadow, 
The  Chief  Beaut}' 's  sign  aud  shadow  I 

"  Holy,  in  me  and  thee, 

Rose  itillen  from  the  tree — 
Though  the  world  stand  dumb  around  us, 
All  unable  to  expound  us. 

"  Though  none  us  deign  to  bless, 

Blessed  are  we,  nathless: 
Blessed  still  and  consecrated, 
In  that,  rose,  we  were  created. 

"  Oh,  shame  to  poet's  lays, 

Sung  for  the  dole  of  praise — 
Hoarsely  sung  upon  the  highway 
With  that  oholum  da  mihi! 

"  Shame,  shame  to  poet's  soul 

Pining  for  such  a  dole. 
When  Heaven-chosen  to  inherit 
The  high  throne  of  a  chief  spirit! 

"  Sit  still  upon  your  thrones, 

0  3'e  poetic  ones  ! 
And  if,  sooth,  the  world  decry  you, 
Let  it  pass  unchallenged  by  3'ou  I 

"Ye  to  3'ourselves,  suffice, 

Without  its  flatteries. 
Self-contentedl}-  approve  ^-ou 
Unto  Him  who  sits  above  3'ou — 

"  In  prayers — that  upward  mount 

Like  to  a  fair-sunned  fount 
Which,  in  gushing  back  upon  you. 
Hath  an  upper  music  won  you. 

"  In  faith — that  still  perceives 

No  rose  can  shed  her  leaves. 
Far  less,  poet  fall  from  mission. 
With  an  unfulfilled  fruition. 

"  In  hope — that  apprehends 

And  end  beyond  these  ends, 
And  great  uses  rendered  duly 
By  the  meanest  song  sung  truly. 


382       THE  POET  AND  THE  BIRD. 

"  In  thanks — for  all  the  good 

By  poets  understood — 
For  the  sound  of  seraphs  moving 
Down  the  hidden  depths  of  loving — 

"  For  sights  of  things  away  • 
Through  Assures  of  the  clay, 
Promised  things  which  sJwll  be  given 
And  sung  ovei",  up  in  Heaven. — 

"  For  life,  so  lovely  A'ain, 
For  death,  which  breaks  the  chain- 
For  this  sense  of  present  sweetness — 
And  this  3'earning  to  completeness  1  " 


THE  POET  AND  THE  BIRD. 

A    FABLE. 

Said  a  people  to  a  poet — "  Go  out  from  among  ug 
straightway  ! 
While  we  are  thinking  earthly  things,  thou   singest 
of  divine. 
There's  a  little  fair  brown  nightingale,  who,  sitting  in 
the  gateway, 
Makes  fitter  music  to  our  ear,  than  any  song  of 
thine !  " 

The  poeD   went  out  weeping — the  nightingale  ceased 
chanting, 
"  Now,   wherefore,   0   thou  nightingale,   is  all  thy 
sweetness  done  ?  " 
— "  I  cannot  sing  my  earthly  things,  the  heavenly  poet 
wanting. 
Whose  highest  harmony  includes  the  lowest  under 
sun." 

The  poet  went  out  weeping — and  died  abroad,  bereft 
there. 
The  bird  flew  to  his  grave  and  died  amid  a  thousand 
wails. 
A.nd,  when  I  last  came  by  the  place,  I  swear  the  music 
left  there 
Was  onlj'  of  the  poet's  song,  and  not  tho  nightin- 
gale's. 


THE     CRY     OE     TUE     HUMAN.  383 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  HUMAN. 

"There  is  no  God,"  the  foolish  saith, 

But  none,  "  There  is  no  sorrow," 
And  nature  oft,  the  crj'^  of  faith. 

In  bitter  need  will  borrow : 
Eyes  which  the  preacher  could  not  school, 

By  wayside  graves  are  raised, 
And  lips  say,  "  God  be  pitiful," 

Who  ne'er  said,  "  God  be  praised." 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  1 

The  tempest  stretches  from  the  steep 

The  shadow  of  its  coining. 
The  beasts  grow  tame,  and  near  us  creep, 

As  help  were  in  the  human  ; 
Yet,  while  the  cloud-wheels  roll  and  grind, 

We  spirits  tremble  under! — 
The  hills  have  echoes,  but  we  find 

No  answer  for  the  thunder. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  1 

The  battle  hurtles  on  the  plains, 

Earth  feels  new  scythes  upon  her. 
We  reap  our  brothers  for  the  wains. 

And  call  the  harvest  .  .  honor ; 
Draw  face  to  face,  front  line  to  line, 

One  image  all  inherit — 
Then  kill,  curse  on,  by  that  same  sign, 

Clay,  clay — and  spirit,  spirit. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  1 

The  plague  runs  festering  through  the  town, 

And  never  a  bell  is  tolling, 
And  corpses,  jostled  'neath  the  moon, 

Nod  to  the  dead-cart's  rolling. 
The  young  child  calleth  for  the  cup. 

The  strong  man  brings  it  weeping; 
The  mother  from  her  babe  looks  up. 

And  shrieks  away  its  sleeping. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  1 

The  plague  of  gold  strikes  far  and  near. 

And  deep  and  strong  it  enters. 
This  purple  chimar  which  we  wear, 

Makes  madder  than  the  centaur's  : 


3S4  THE     CRY      OF     TQE      HUMAN 

Our  thoughts  grow  blank,  our  words  grow  strange. 

We  cheer  the  pale  goKl  diggers — 
Each  soul  is  worth  so  much  on  'Change, 

And  marked,  like  sheep,  with  figures 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  I 

The  curse  of  gold  upon  tlie  land 

The  lack  of  bread  enforces. 
The  rail-cars  snort  from  strand  to  strand, 

Like  more  of  Death's  White  horses! 
The  rich  preach  "rights"  and  future  daj's, 

And  hear  no  angel  scoffing — 
The  poor  die  mute — with  starving  gaze 

On  corn-ships  in  the  offing. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  1 

We  meet  together  at  the  feast. 

To  private  mirth  betake  us  : 
We  stare  down  in  the  winecup,  lest 

Some  vacant  chair  should  shake  us. 
We  name  delight,  and  pledge  it  round — 

"  It  shall  be  ours  to-morrow  !" 
God's  seraphs,  do  ^our  voices  sound 

As  sad  in  naming  sorrow  ? 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  1 

We  sit  together,  with  the  skies, 

The  stedfast  skies,  above  us, 
We  look  into  each  other's  e3'es, 

"  And  how  long  will  you  love  us?" — ■ 
The  ejes  grow  dim  with  prophecy, 

The  voices,  low  and  breatliless — 
"  Till  death  us  part !" — 0  words,  to  be 

Our  best,  for  love  the  deathless  ! 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  1 

We  tremble  by  the  harmless  bed 

Of  one  loA'ed  and  departed. 
Our  tears  drop  on  the  lips  that  said 

Last  night,  "  Be  stronger-hearted!" 
O  God — to  clasp  those  fingers  close, 

And  3'et  to  feel  so  lonely  ! — 
To  see  a  light  upon  such  brows, 

Which  is  the  daylight  only  ! 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  1 

The  happy  children  come  to  us, 
Aid  look  up  iu  our  faces. 


THE      CRY      OF      THE      HUMAN.  386 

Tlu'}-  ask  us — Was  it  thus,  and  thus, 

"When  we  were  in  their  places  ? — 
We  cannot  speak; — we  see  anew 

The  hills  we  used  to  live  in, 
And  feci  our  mother's  smile  press  through 

The  kisses  she  is  giving. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  1 

We  praj'  together  at  the  kirk. 

For  mercy,  mercy  solely. 
Hands  weary  with  the  evil  work. 

We  lift  them  to  the  Holy. 
The  corpse  is  calm  below  our  knee, 

Its  spirit,  bright  before  Thee — 
Between  them,  worse  than  either,  we — 

Without  the  rest  of  glory  ! 

Be  pitiful,  0  God ! 

We  leave  the  communing  of  men. 

The  murmur  of  the  passions, 
And  live  alone,  to  live  again 

With  endless  generations. 
Are  we  so  brave  ? — The  sea  and  sky 

in  silence  lift  their  mirrors, 
And,  glassed  therein,  our  spirits  high 

Recoil  from  their  own  terrors. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  I 

We  sit  on  hills  our  childhood  wist. 

Woods,  hamlets,  streams,  beholding: 
The  sun  strikes  through  the  farthest  mist, 

The  city's  spire  to  golden. 
The  cit^y's  golden  spire  it  was. 

When  hope  and  health  were  sti'ongest. 
But  now  it  is  the  churchyard  grass 

We  look  upon  the  longest. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  ! 

And  soon  all  vision  waxeth  dull — 

Men  whisper,  "  He  is  dying:  " 
We  cry  no  more  "  Be  pitiful  !  " 

We  have  no  strength  for  crj'ing. 
No  strength,  no  need.     Then,  soul  of  mine, 

Look  up  and  triumph  rather — 
Lo,  in  the  depth  of  God's  Divine 

The  Son  adjures  the  Father. 

Be  pitiful,  0  Goc 

33  Z 


386  A     PORTRAIT. 

A  PORTRAIT. 

"  One  name  is  Elizabeth." — Ben  Jo^n^'so*. 

I  WILL  paint  her  as  I  see  her. 
Ten  times  have  the  lilies  blown, 
Since  she  looked  upon  the  sun. 

And  her  face  is  lily-clear, 

Lily-shaped,  and  dropped  in  duty 
To  the  law  of  its  own  beauty. 

Oval  cheeks  encolored  faintl}'', 
Which  a  trail  of  golden  hair 
Keeps  from  fading  off  to  air : 

And  a  forehead  fair  and  saintly, 
Which  two  blue  eyes  undershine. 
Like  meek  praj'ers  before  a  shrine. 

Face  and  figure  of  a  child — 

Though  too  calm,  you  think,  and  tender, 
For  the  childhood  you  would  lend  her. 

Yet  child-simple,  undefiled, 
Frank,  obedient — waiting  still 
On  the  turnings  of  your  will. 

Moving  light,  as  all  your  things, 
As  young  bii'ds,  or  early  wheat. 
When  the  wind  blows  over  it. 

Only,  free  from  flutterings 

Of  loud  mirth  that  scorneth  measure- 
Taking  love  for  her  chief  pleasure. 

Choosing  pleasures,  for  the  rest. 
Which  come  softly — -just  as  she, 
When  she  nestles  at  your  knee. 

Quiet  lalk  she  liketh  best, 
In  a  bower  of  gentle  looks — 
Watering  flowers,  or  reading  books. 

And  her  voice,  it  murmurs  lowlj, 
As  a  silver  stream  may  run, 
Which  yet  feels,  you  feel,  the  sun 


A  PORTRAIT. 


386  A     PORTRAIT. 

A  PORTRAIT. 

"  One  name  is  Elizabeth." — Ben  Jo^n^soh. 

I  WILL  paint  her  as  I  see  her. 
Ten  times  have  the  lilies  blown, 
Since  she  looked  upon  the  sun. 

And  her  face  is  lily-clear, 

Lily-shaped,  and  dropped  in  duty 
To  the  law  of  its  own  beauty. 

Oval  cheeks  encolored  faintl}'", 
Which  a  trail  of  golden  hair 
Keeps  from  fading  off  to  air: 

And  a  forehead  fair  and  saintly, 
Which  two  blue  eyes  undershine. 
Like  meek  praj'ers  before  a  shrine. 

Face  and  figure  of  a  child — 

Though  too  calm,  you  think,  and  tender 
For  the  childhood  you  would  lend  her. 

Yet  child-simple,  undefiled, 
Frank,  obedient — waiting  still 
On  the  turnings  of  your  will. 

Moving  light,  as  all  your  things. 
As  young  bii'ds,  or  early  wheat, 
When  the  wind  blows  over  it. 

Only,  free  from  flutterings 

Of  loud  mirth  that  scorneth  measure- 
Taking  love  for  her  chief  pleasure. 

Choosing  pleasures,  for  the  rest. 
Which  come  softly — -just  as  she. 
When  she  nestles  at  your  knee. 

Quiet  lalk  she  liketh  best, 
In  a  bower  of  gentle  looks — 
Watering  flowers,  or  reading  books. 

And  her  voice,  it  murmurs  lowly, 
As  a  silver  stream  may  run. 
Which  yet  feels,  you  feel,  the  sun 


A  POETEAIT. 


CONFESSIONS.  ^^1 

And  her  smile,  it  seems  half  holj^, 
As  if  dniwn  from  thoughts  more  far 
Than  our  common  jestings  are. 

And  if  any  poet  knew  her, 

He  would  sing  of  lier  with  falls 
Used  in  lovel}'  madrigals. 

And  if  any  painter  drew  her, 
He  would  paint  her  unaware 
With  a  halo  round  the  hair. 

And  if  reader  read  the  poem, 

He  would  whisper — "  You  have  done  a 
Consecrated  little  Una." 

And  a  dreamer  (did  you  show  him 
That  same  picture)  would  exclaim,  - 
"  'Tis  my  angel,  with  a  name  !  " 

And  a  stranger,  when  he  sees  her 
In  the  street  even — smileth  stilly, 
Just  as  you  would  at  a  lily. 

And  all  voices  that  address  her, 
Soften,  sleeken  every  word. 
As  if  speaking  to  a  bird. 

And  all  fancies  yearn  to  cover 

The  hard  earth  Avhereon  she  passes; 
With  the  thyniy  scented  grasses. 

And  all  hearts  do  pray,  "  God  love  her !  " 

Ay,  and  aiwa^'s,  in  good  sooth. 
We  maj'  all  be  sure  He  Doth. 


CONFESSIONS. 

Face  to  face  in  my  chamber,  my  silent  chamber,  I  saw 
her. 

God  and  she  and  I  only,  .  .  there,  I  sate  down  to  draw 

her 
Soul  through  the  clefts  of  confession  .  .  .  Speak.  I  am 

holdiug  thee  fast, 
As  the  augels  of  resurrection  shall  do  it  at  the  last. 


388  V.JNFESSI0N8. 

"  My  cup  is  blood-red 
With  my  sin,"  she  said, 
"  And  I  pour  it  out  to  the  bitter  lees, 
As  if  the  angels  of  judgment  stood  over  me  strong  at 
the  last, 

Or  as  thou  wert  as  these  1  " 

When  God  smote  His  hands  together,  and  struck  out 

thy  soul  as  a  spark 
Into  the  organized  glory  of  things,  from  deeps  of  the 

dark — 
Say,  didst  thou  shine,  didst   thou  burn,   didst  thou 

honor  the  power  in  the  form, 
As  the  star  does  at  night,  or  the  fire-fl}',  or  even  tlie 
little  ground-worm  ? 

"  I  have  sinned,"  she  said, 
"  For  my  seed  light-shed 
Has  smouldered  away  from  His  first  decrees ! 
The    cypress    praiseth    the    fire-fl^^  the    ground-leaf 
praiseth  the  worm — 

I  am  viler  than  these  !" 

When  God  on  that  sin  had  pity,  and  did  not  trample 

tliee  straight 
With  His  wild  rains  beating  and  drenching  thy  light 

found  inadequate; 
When  He  onl^-  sent  thee  the  north-winds,  a  little  search- 
ing and  chill. 
To  quicken  thy  flame  .  .  didst  thou  kindle  and  flash 
to  the  heights  of  His  will  ? 

"  I  have  sinned,"  she  said, 
"  Unquickened,  unspread 
My  fire  dropt  down,  and  I  wept  on  my  knees  I 
I  only  said  of  His  winds  of  the  north  as  I  shrank  from 
their  chill,  .  . 

What  delight  is  in  these  ?" 

When  God  on  that  sin  had  pity,  and  did  not  meet  it 

as  such. 
But  tempered  the  wind  to  thy  uses,  and  softened  the 

world  to  thy  touch. 
At  least  thou  wast  moved  in  thy  soul,  though  vmable 

to  prove  it  afar. 
Thou  couldst  carry  th}^  light  like  a  jewel,  not  giving 

it  out  like  a  star  ? 

"I  have  sinned,"  she  said, 
"  And  not  merited 


\  ONFESSIONS.  389 

The  gift  He  gives,  by  the  grace  He  sees 
The  mine-cave  praiseth  the  jewel,  the  hill-side  praiseth 
the  star ; 

I  am  viler  than  these." 

Then  I  cried  aloud  in  my  passion,  .  .  Unthankful  and 

impotent  creature, 
To  throw  up  thy  scorn  unto  God  through  the  rents 

in  thy  beggarly'  nature  ! 
If  He,  the  all-giving  and  loving,  is  served  so  unduly, 

what  then 
Hast  thou  done  to  the  weak  and  the  false,  and  the 
changing,  .  .  thy  fellows  of  men  ? 
"  I  have  loved,^^  she  said, 
(Words  bowing  her  head 
As  the  wind  and  the  wet  acacia-trees  !) 
"  I  saw  God  sitting  above  me — but  I  .  .  I  sat  among 
men, 

And  I  have  loved  these." 

Again  with  a  lifted  voice,  like  a  choral  trumpet  that 

takes 
The  lowest  note  of  a  viol  that  trembles,  and  triumph- 
ing breaks 
On  the  air  witli  its  solemn  and  clear — "  Behold  !  I  have 

sinned  not  in  this ! 
Where  I  loved,  I  have  loved  much  and  well — I  have 
verily  loved  not  amiss. 

lict  the  living,"  she  said, 
"Enquire  of  the  Dead, 
In  the  house  of  tlie  pale-fronted  Images  : 
My  own  true  dead  will  answer  for  me,  that  I  have  not 
loved  amiss 

In  m}^  love  for  all  these. 

"  The  least  touch   of   their  hands  in  the  morning,  I 

keep  it  by  day  and  by  night. 
Their  least  step  on  the  stair,  at  the  door,  still  throbs 

through  me,  if  ever  so  light. 
Their  least  gift,  which  they  left  to  my  childhood,  fai 

off,  in  tlie  long-ago  years, 
Is  now  turned  from  a  toy  to  a  relic,  and  seen  througb 
the  crystals  of  tears. 

Dig  the  snow,"  she  said, 
"  For  my  churchyard  bed, 
33* 


390  LOVED     ONCE. 

Yet  I,  as  I  sleep,  shall  not  fear  to  freeze, 
If  one  only  of  these  my  beloveds   shall  love  me  with 
heart-warm  tears, 

As  I  loved  these ! 

"  If  I  angered  any  among  them,  from  thenceforth  my 

own  life  w-as  sore. 
If  I  fell  by  chance  from  their   presence,  I  clung  to 

their  memory  more. 
Their  tender  I  often  felt  holy,  their  bitter  I  sometimes 

called  sweet ; 
And  whenever  their  heart  has  refused  me,  I  fell  down 
straight  at  their  feet. 

I  have  loved,"  she  said — 
"  Man  is  weak,  God  is  dread. 
Yet  the  weak  man  dies  with  his  spirit  at  ease, 
Having  poured  such  an  unguent  of  love  but  once  on 
the  Saviour's  feet, 

As  I  lavished  for  these." 

Go,  I  cried,  thou  hast  chosen  the  Human,  and  left  the 

Divine  ! 
Then,  at  least,  have  the  Human  shared  with  thee  their 

wild  berry-wine? 
Have  they  loved  back  thy  love,  and  when  strangers 

approached  thee  with  blame, 
Have  they  covered  thy  fault  with  their   kisses,  and 
loved  thee  the  same  ? 

But  she  shrunk  and  said, 
"  God,  over  mj"  head 
Must  sweep  in  the  wrath  of  his  judgment  seas, 
If  He  shall  deal  with  me  sinning,  but  only  indeed  the 
same 

And  no  gentler  than  these." 


LOYED    ONCE. 

I  CLASSED,  appraising  once. 
Earth's  lamentable  sounds — the  welladay, 

The  jarring  3'ea  and  naj^. 
The  fall  of  kisses  on  unanswering  clay. 
The  sobbed  farewell,  the  welcome  mournfulier— 


LOVED     ONCE.  391 

But  all  did  leaven  the  air 
VI  ith  a  less  bitter  leaven  of  sure  despair, 

Than  these  words — "  I  loved  once." 

And  who  saith,  "  I  loved  once  ?  " 
Not  angels — whose  clear  eyes,  love,  love,  foresee, 

Love,  through  eternity, 
And  by  To  Love  do  apprehend  To  Be. 
Not  God,  called  Love,  his  noble  crown-name,  casting 

A  lio^ht  too  brotid  for  blasting:  I 
The  great  God  changing  not  from  everlasting, 

Saith  never,  "  1  toved  once." 

Oh,  never  is  "  Loved  once  " 
Thy  word,  thou  Yictim-Christ,  misprized  friend! 

Thy  cross  and  curse  may  rend, 
But  having  loved  Thou  lovest  to  the  end. 
This  is  man's  saying — man's.     Too  weak  to  move 

One  sphered  star  above, 
Man  desecrates  the  eternal  God-word  Love 

By  his  No  More,  and  Once. 

How  say  ye,  "  We  loved  once," 
Blasphemers  ?  Is  j'^our  earth  not  cold  enow. 

Mourners,  without  that  snow  ? 
Ah,  friends  !  and  would  ye  wrong  each  other  so  ? 
And  could  ye  say  of  some  whose  love  is  known, 

Whose  prayers  have  met  your  own, 
Whose  tears  have  fallen  for  3^ou,  w^hose  smiles  have 
shone 

So  long — "  We  loved  them  once  ?  " 

Could  ye,  "  We  loved  her  once," 
Say  calm  of  me,  sweet  friends,  when  out  of  sight  ? 

When  hearts  of  better  right 
Stand  in  between  me  and  your  happj^  light  ? 
Or  when,  as  flowers  kept  too  long  in  the  shade, 

Ye  find  my  colors  fade. 
And  all  that  is  not  love  in  me,  decayed  ? 

Such  words — Ye  loved  me  once! 

Could  ye,  "  We  loved  her  once," 
Say  cold  of  me  when  further  put  away 

In  earth's  sei)ulchral  cla}' — 
When  mute  the  lips  which  deprecate  to-day  ? 
Not  so  !  not  then — least  then.     When  life  is  shrive  a, 

And  death's  full  joy  is  given — 
Of  those  who  sit  and  love  you  up  in  lieaven, 

Say  not,  "  We  loved  them  once" 


392  THE     HOUSE     OF     CLOUDS. 

Say  neA'er,  ye  loved  once. 
God  is  too  near  above,  the  grave,  beneath, 

And  all  our  moments  breathe 
Too  quick  in  mysteries  of  life  and  death, 
For  such  a  word.     The  eternities  avenge 

Aflections  light  of  range. 
Thee  comes  no  change  to  justify  tliat  change, 

Whatever  comes — Loved  once  ! 

And  yet  that  same  word  once 
Is  humanly  acceptive.     Kings  have  said 

Shaking  a  discrowned  head, 
"  We  ruled  once  " — dotards,    "  We  once  taught  and 

led." 
Cripples  once  danced  i'the  vines — and  bards  approved, 

Were  once  by  scornings,  moved  : 
But  love  strikes  one  hour — love  !  those  never  loved. 

Who  dream  that  they  loved  once. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  CLOUDS. 

I  WOULD  build  a  cloudy  Hou>e 

For  my  thoughts  to  live  in, 
When  for  earth  too  fancy -loose, 

And  too  low  for  heaven. 
Hush  !  I  talk  my  dream  aloud  ; 

I  build  it  bright  to  see. — 
I  build  it  on  the  moonlit  cloud 

To  which  I  looked  with  thee. 

Cloud-walls  of  the  morning's  grey 

Faced  with  amber  column. 
Crowned  with  crimson  cupola 

From  a  sunset  solemn. 
May-mists,  for  the  casements,  fetch, 

Pale  and  glimmering. 
With  a  sunbeam  hid  in  each, 

And  a  smell  of  spring. 

Build  the  entrance  high  and  proud, 
Darkening  and  then  brightening, 

Of  a  riven  thunder-cloud, 
Veined  by  the  lightning. 


THE     HOUSE     OF     CLOUDS. 


893 


Use  one  with  an  iris-stain 

For  the  door  within, 
Turning  to  a  sound  like  rain 

As  I  enter  in. 

Build  a  spacious  hall  thereby 

Boldly,  never  fearing. 
Use  the  blue  place  of  the  sky 

Which  the  wind  is  clearing; 
Branched  with  corridors  sublime, 

Flecked  with  winding  stairs, 
Such  as  children  wish  to  climb, 

Following  their  own  prayers. 

In  the  mutest  of  the  house, 

I  will  have  my  chamber. 
Silence  at  the  door  shall  use 

Evening's  light  of  amber  ; 
Solemnizing  ever}'  mood, 

Softening  in  decree, 
Turning  sadness  into  good 

As  I  turn  the  key. 

Be  my  chamber  tapestried 

With  the  showers  of  summer, 
Close,  but  soundless — glorified 

When  the  sunbeams  come  here; 
Wandering  harpers,  harijing  on 

AYaters  stringed  for  such. 
Drawing  color,  for  a  tune, 

With  a  vibrant  touch. 

Bring  a  shadow  green  and  still 

From  the  chestnut  forest, 
Bring  a  purple  from  the  hill, 

When  the  heat  is  sorest. 
Spread  them  out  from  wall  to  wall, 

Carpet-wove  around, 
Whereupon  the  foot  shall  fall 

In  light  instead  of  sound. 

Bring  fantastic  cloudlets  home 

From  the  noontide  zenith. 
Ranged  for  sculptures  round  the  room 

Named  as  Fancy  weeneth. 
Some  be  Junos,  without  eyes, 

Naiads,  witliout  sources ; 
Some  be  birds  of  [)aradise. 

Some,  Olympian  horse 


f 


894  THE      HOUSE      OF     CLOUDS. 

Bring  the  dews  the  birds  shake  off, 

^Yakin^  in  the  hedges — 
Ihose  too,  perfnmed  for  a  proof, 

From  the  lilies'  edges. 
From  our  England's  field  and  moor, 

Bring  them  calm  and  white  in, 
Whence  to  form  a  mirror  pure 

For  Love's  self-delighting. 

Bring  a  gray  cloud  from  the  east 

Where  the  lark  is  singing, 
(Something  of  the  song  at  least 

Unlost  in  the  bringing.) 
That  shall  be  a  morning  chair, 

Poet-dream  may  sit  in. 
When  it  leans  out  on  the  air, 

Unrhymed  and  unwritten. 

Bring  the  red  cloud  from  the  sun  I 

While  he  sinketh,  catch  it. 
That  shall  be  a  couch — with  one 

Sidelong  star  to  watch  it — 
Fit  for  Poet's  finest  thought 

At  the  curfew-sounding ; 
Things  unseen  being  nearer  brought 

Than  the  seen,  around  him. 

Poet's  thought — not  poet's  sigh. 

'Las,  the}^  come  together  ! 
Cloudj'  walls  divide  and  fly, 

As  in  April  weather  ! 
Cupola  and  column  proud. 

Structure  bright  to  see, 
Gone  !  except  that  moonlit  cloud 

To  which  I  looked  with  thee. 

Let  them.     Wipe  such  visionings 

From  the  fancy's  cartel. 
Love  secures  some  fairer  things, 

Dowered  Avith  his  immortal 
The  sun  may  darken,  heaven  be  bowed. 

But  still  unclianged  shall  be — 
Here,  in  my  soul— that  moonlit  cloud, 

To  which  I  looked  with  thee  ! 


A     SABBATU      MORNING     AT      SEA  395 


A  SABBATH  MORNING  AT  SEA. 

The  ship  Avent  on  with  solemn  face; 
To  meet  the  darkness  on  tlie  deep, 
The  solemn  ship  went  onward. 
I  bowed  down  weary  in  the  place, 
For  parting  tears  and  present  sleep 
Had  weighed  mine  eyelids  downward. 

Thick  sleep  which  shut  all  dreams  from  me, 
And  kept  ra}^  inner  self  apart 
And  quiet  from  emotion, 
Then  brake  awa}^  and  left  me  free, 
Made  conscious  of  a  human  heax't 
Betwixt  the  heafven  and  ocean. 

The  new  sight,  the  new  wondrous  sight  1 
The  waters  round  me,  turbulent — 
The  skies  impassive  o'er  me, 
Calm,  in  a  moonless,  sunless  light, 
Half  glorified  by  that  intent 
Of  holding  the  day-glory  ! 

Two  pale  thin  clouds  did  stand  upon 
The  meeting  line  of  sea  and  sky, 
With  aspect  still  and  mystic. 
I  think  they  did  foresee  the  sun. 
And  rested  on  their  prophecy 
In  quietude  majestic. 

Then  flushed  to  radiance  where  they  stood, 
Like  statues  b}'  the  open  tomb 
Of  shining  saints  half  risen. — 
The  sun  ! — he  came  up  to  be  viewed. 
And  sky  and  sea  made  mighty  room 
To  inaugurate  the  vision. 

I  oft  had  seen  the  dawnlight  run, 

As  red  wine,  through  the  hills,  and  break 
Through  many  a  mist's  inurning; 
But,  here,  no  earth  profaned  the  sun  1 
Heaven,  ocean,  did  alone  partake 
The  sacrament  of  morning. 

Away  with  thoughts  fantastical ! 
I  would  be  humble  to  my  worth, 
Self-guarded,  as  self-doubted. 


S96  A     SABBATH      MORNING     AT      SEA. 

Though  here  no  earthly'  shadows  fall, 
I,  joying,  gl•ie^'ing  without  earth, 
Ma}'  desecrate  without  it. 

God's  sabbath  raorning  sweeps  the  waves; 
I  would  not  praise  the  pageant  high 
Yet  miss  the  dedicature. 
I,  carried  toward  the  sunless  graves 
By  force  of  natural  things — should  I 
Exult  in  only  nature  ? 

And  could  I  bear  to  sit  alone 
'Mid  nature's  fixed  benignities, 

While  my  warm  pulse  was  moving  ? 
Too  dark  thou  art,  O  glittering  sun. 
Too  strait  ye  are,  capacious  seas, 
To  satisfy  the  loving  ! 

It  seems  a  better  lot  tlian  so, 

To  sit  with  friends  beneath  the  beech. 
And  feel  them  dear  and  dearer*, 
Or  follow  children  as-the}*  go 

In  prett}'  pairs,  with  softened  speech, 
As  the  church-bells  ring  nearer. 

Love  me,  sweet  friends,  this  Sabbath  day  I 
The  sea  sings  round  me  wliile  3'e  roll 
Afar  the  hymn  unaltered, 
And  kneel,  where  once  I  knelt  to  pvay, 
And  bless  me  deeper  in  the  soul. 
Because  the  voice  has  faltered. 

And  though  this  Sabbath  comes  to  me 
Without  the  stoled  minister 
Or  chanting  congregation, 
God's  Spirit  brinus  communion,  He 
Who  brooded  soft  on  waters  drear. 
Creator  on  creation. 

Himself,  I  think,  shall  draw  me  higlier. 

Where  keep  the  saints  with  harp  and  song 
An  endless  Sabbath  morning, 
And  on  that  sea  commixed  with  fire 
Oft  drop  their  eyelids,  raised  too  long 
To  the  full  Godhead's  burniugr. 


A     FLOWER     IN      A      LETTER.  391 


A  FLOWER  IN  A  LETTER 

ISIy  lonely  chaniber  next  the  sea, 
Is  full  of  man}'  flowers  set  free 

By  summer's  earliest  duty. 
Dear  friends  upon  tlie  garden-walk 
Might  stop  amid  their  fondest  talk, 

To  pull  the  least  in  beauty. 

A  thousand  flowers — each  seeming  one 
That  learnt  by  gaziug  on  the  sun 

To  counterfeit  his  f^hining  ; 
Within  wliose  leaves  the  holy  dew 
That  falls  from  heaven,  has  won  a.iew 

A  glory  in  declining 

Red  roses,  used  to  praises  long, 
Contented  witli  tlie  poet's  song, 

The  nightingale's  l)eing  over; 
And  lilies  white,  prei)ared  to  touch 
The  whitest  thought,  nor  soil  it  much 

Of  dreame    turned  to  lover. 

Deep  violets,  you  liken  to 

The  kindest  eyes  that  look  on  you, 

Without  a  thought  disloyal  ; 
And  cactuses,  a  queen  might  don, 
If  wear}^  of  a  golden  crown, 

And  still  appear  as  royal. 

Pansies  for  ladies  all — (1  wis 

That  none  who  wear  sucii  brooches,  miss 

A  jewel  in  the  mirror :) 
And  tulips,  children  love  to  stretch 
Their  fingers  down,  to  feel  in  each 

Its  beauty's  secret  nearer. 

Love's  language  may  be  talked  with  these ; 
To  work  out  clioicest  sentences, 

No  blossoms  can  be  meeter  ; 
And,  such  being  used  in  Eastern  bowers. 
Young  maid:j  may  wonder  if  the  lowers 

Or  meanings  be  the  sweeter. 

And  such  being  strewn  before  a  bride. 
Her  little  foot  may  turn  aside, 

Their  longer  bloom  decreeing, 

34 


398  A     FLOWER     IN     A     lETTER. 

Unless  some  voice's  whispered  sound 
SlK)uld  make  her  gaze  upon  the  ground 
Too  earuestl}^ — for  seeing. 

And  such  being  scattered  on  a  grave, 
Whoever  mourneth  there,  may  have 

A  t^'pe  which  seeineth  worthy 
Of  that  fair  body  hid  below, 
Which  bloomed  on  earth  a  time  ago, 

Then  perished  as  the  earthy. 

And  such  being  wreathed  for  worldly  feast 
Across  the  brimming  cup  some  guest 

Their  rainbow  colors  viewing, 
May  feel  them,  with  a  silent  start, 
The  covenant,  his  childish  heart 

With  nature  made — renewing. 

No  flowers  our  gardened  England  hath, 
To  match  with  these,  in  bloom  and  breath, 

Which  from  the  world  are  hiding. 
In  sunny  Devon  moist  with  rills — 
A  nunnery  of  cloistered  hills, 

The  elements  presiding. 

By  Loddon's  stream  the  flowers  are  fair 
That  meet  one  gifted  lady's  care 

With  prodigal  reward in.ij^, 
(For  Beaut}'  is  too  used  to  run 
To  Mitford's  bower — to  want  the  sun 

To  light  her  through  the  garden.) 

But,  here,  all  summers  are  comprised — 
The  nightly  frosts  shrink  exorcised 

Before  the  priestly  moonshine  ; 
And  every  Wind  with  stoled  feet, 
In  wandering  down  the  alleys  sweet, 

Steps  lightly  on  the  sunshine, 

And  (having  promised  Harpocrate 
Among  the  nodding  roses,  that 

Xo  harm  shall  touch  his  daughters) 
Gives  quite  awa}'  the  rushing  sound, 
He  dares  not  use  upon  such  ground. 

To  ever-trickling  waters. 

Yfct,  sun  and  wind !  what  can  ye  do 
But  make  the  leaves  mo»-e  brightly  show 
In  posies  newly  gathered  ? 


A      FLOWER      IN      A      LETTER,  399 

I  look  awa^^  from  all  3'oiir  best, 
To  one  poor  flower  unlike  the  rest, 
A  little  flower  half-withered. 

I  do  not  tniiik  it  ever  was 

A  pretty  flower — to  make  the  grass 

Look  greener  where  it  reddened ; 
And  now  it  seems  ashamed  to  be 
Alone,  in  all  this  compan^^ 

Of  aspect  shrunk  and  saddened. 

A  chamber-window  was  the  spot 
It  grew  in,  from  a  garden-pot, 

Among  the  city  shadows. 
If  any,  tending  it,  might  seem 
To  smile,  'twas  onl)-  in  a  dream 

Of  nature  in  the  meadows. 

How  coldly  on  its  head  did  fall 
The  sunshine,  from  the  city  wall 

In  pale  refraction  driven  ! 
How  sadly  plashed  upon  its  leaves 
The  raindrops,  losing  in  the  eaves 

The  first  sweet  news  of  heaven  ! 

And  those  who  planted,  gathered  it 
In  gamesome  or  in  loving  fit. 

And  sent  it  as  a  token 
Of  what  their  city  pleasures  be — 
For  one,  in  Devon  by  the  sea 

And  garden-blooms,  to  look  on. 

But  SHE,  for  whom  the  jest  was  meant. 
With  a  grave  passion  innocent 

Receiving  what  was  given — 
Oh,  if  her  face  she  turned  then, 
Let  none  say  'twas  to  gaze  again 

Upon  tlie  flowers  of  Devon  ! 

Because,  whatever  virtue  dwells 
In  genial  skies,  warm  oracles 

For  gardens  brightlj'  springing — 
The  flower  which  grew  beneatL  your  eyea. 
Beloved  friends,. to  mine  supplies 

A  beauty  worthier  singing  I 


♦  00  THE     MASK. 


THE  MASK. 

I  HAVE  a  Jimiling  lace,  she  said, 

I  have  a  jest  for  all  I  meet, 
I  have  a  gaiiaiicl  for  my  head 

And  all  its  flowers  are  sweet — 
And  so  you  call  me  ga}-,  she  said. 

Grief  taught  to  me  this  smile,  she  said, 
And  Wrong  did  teach  this  jesting  bold. 

These  flowers  were  plucked  from  garden-bed 
While  a  death-chime  was  tolled. 

And  what  now  will  you  say  ? — she  said. 

Behind  no  prison-grate,  she  said, 

Which  slurs  the  sunshine  half  a  mile, 

Live  captives  so  uncomforted. 
As  souls  behind  a  smile. 

God's  pity  let  us  pray,  she  said. 

I  know  m^'^  face  is  bright,  she  said — 
Such  brightness,  dying  suns  difl['use. 

I  bear  upon  m}'  forehead  shed 
The  sign  of  what  1  lose — 

The  ending  of  m}'  day,  she  said. 

If  I  dared  leave  this  smile,  she  said, 
And  take  a  moan  upon  my  mouth, 

And  tie  a  c^'press  round  my  head. 
And  let  my  tears  run  smooth — 

It  were  the  happier  way,  she  said. 

And  since  that  must  not  be,  she  said, 
I  fain  3'^our  bitter  world  would  leave. 

How  calml3',  calmly,  smile  the  Dead, 
Who  do  not,  therefore,  grieve  ! 

The  3'ea  of  Heaven  is  yea,  she  said. 

But  in  3-ou^r  bitter  world,  she  said. 
Face-joy's  a  costly  mask  to  wear. 

'Tis  bought  with  pangs  long  nourished, 
And  rounded  to  despair. 

Grief's  earnest  make's  life's  pla}',  she  said. 

Ye  w'eep  for  those  who  weep  ?  she  su,id — 
Ah  fools!  I  bid  you  pass  them  b3^ 

Go,  weep  for  those  whose  hearts  have  bled, 
What  time  their  e^'es  v^ere  dry. 

Whom  sadder  can  I  say  ?  she  said. 


CALLS      ON      THE      HEART.  401 


CALLS  ON  THE  HEART. 

Free  Heart,  that  singest  to-day, 
Like  a  bird  on  the  first  green  spray, 
Wilt  thou  go  forth  to  tlie  world, 
Where  the  hawk  hath  his  wing  unfurled 

To  follow,  perhaps,  thy  way  .'' 
Where  the  tamer,  thine  own  will  bind. 
And,  to  make  tliee  sing,  will  blind. 
While  the  little  hip  grows  for  the  free  behind? 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 
— "  No,  no  ! 
Free  hearts  are  better  so." 

The  world,  thou  hast  heard  it  told, 
Has  counted  its  robber-gold, 
And  the  pieces  stick  to  the  hand. 
The  world  goes  riding  it  fair  and  grand, 

While  the  truth  is  bought  and  sold  I 
W^orld-voices  east,  world-voices  west, 
They  call  thee.  Heart,  from  thine  early  rest, 
"  Come  hither,  come  hither  and  be  our  guest." 
Heart,  wilt  tliou  go  ? 
— "  No,  no  ! 
Good  hearts  are  calmer  so.'' 

Who  calleth  thee.  Heart?     World's  Strife, 
With  a  golden  heft  to  his  knife. 
World's  Mirth,  with  a  finger  fine 
That  draws  on  a  board  in  wiue 

Her  blood-red  plans  of  life. 
World's  Gain,  with  a  brow  knit  down. 
World's  Fame,  with  a  laurel  crown, 
Which  rustles  most  as  the  leaves  turn  brown — 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 
— "No,  no  ! 
Calm  hearts  are  wiser  so." 

Hast  heard  that  Proserpina 
(Once  fooling)  was  snatched  awa}'. 
To  partake  the  dark  king's  seat — 
And  that  the  tears  ran  fast  on  hor  feel, 

To  think  how^  the  sun  shone  yesterday  ? 
With  her  ankles  sunken  in  asphodel 
She  wept  for  the  rosei  of  earth  which  fell 
From  her  lap  when  the  wild  car  drave  to  hell 
34*  2A 


402  CALLS     ON     THE      HEART. 

Heart,  wiU  tliou  go  ? 
— "  No,  no  1 
Wise  hearts  are  warmer  so." 

And  whsit  is  this  place  not  seen, 
Where  Hearts  may  hide  serene  ? 
"  'Tis  a  fair,  still  house  well-kept, 
Which  humble  thoughts  have  swept, 

And  holy  prayers  made  clean. 
There,  I  sit  with  Love  in  the  sun, 
And  we  two  never  have  done 
Singing  sweeter  songs  than  are  guessed  by  one." 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 
—"No,  no! 
Warm  hearts  are  fuller  so." 

0  Heart,  0  Love — I  fear 
That  Love  may  be  kept  too  neai-. 
Hast  heard,  O  Heart,  that  tale. 
How  Love  may  be  false  and  frail 

To  a  heart  once  holden  dear  ? 
— "  But  this  true  Love  of  mine 
Clings  fast  as  the  clinging  vine, 
And  mingles  pure  as  the  grapes  in  wine." 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 
_"  No,  no ! 
Full  hearts  beat  higher  so." 

O  Heart,  0  Love,  beware ! — 

Look  up,  and  boast  not  there. 

For  who  has  twirled  at  the  pin  ? 

'Tis  the  World,  between  Death  and  Sin — 

The  World,  and  the  World's  Despair! 
And  Death  has  quickened  his  pace 
To  the  liearth,  with  a  mocking  face. 
Familiar  as  LoA'e,  in  Love's  own  place — 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 
— "Still,  no! 
High  hearts  must  grieve  even  so." 

The  house  is  waste  to-day — 
The  leaf  has  dropt  from  the  spray, 
The  thorn,  prickt  through  to  the  song. 
If  summer  doeth  no  wrong 

The  winter  will,  they  say. 
Sing,  Heart !  what  lieart  replies  ? 
In  vain  we  were  calm  z)nd  wise, 
If  the  tears  unkissed  stand  on  in  our  eyes. 


WISDOM     UNAPPLIED.  403 

Heart,  wilt  thou  go? 
— "  Ah,  110  ! 
"  Grieved  liearts  mast  break  even  ao." 

Howbeit  all  is  not  lost. 
The  warm  noon  ends  in  frost, 
And  worldly  tongues  of  promise, 
Like  sheep-bells,  die  off  from  us 

On  the  desert  hills  cloudTcrossed  ! 
Yet,  through  the  silence,  shall 
Pierce  the  death-angel's  call, 
And  "  Come  up  hither,"  recover  all. 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 
— "  I  go  ! 
Broken  hearts  triumph  so." 


WISDOM  UNAPPLIED. 

If  I  were  thou,  0  butterfly, 

And  poised  uiy  }>urple  wing  to  spy 

The  sweetest  flowers  that  live  and  die, 

I  would  not  waste  my  strength  on  those, 
As  thou — for  summer  has  a  close, 
And  pansies  bloom  not  in  the  snows. 

If  I  were  thou,  0  working  bee, 
And  all  that  honey-gold  I  see, 
Could  delve  from  roses  easily, 

I  would  not  hive  it  at  man's  door, 
As  thou — that  heirdom  of  my  store 
Should  make  him  rich,  and  leave  me  poor. 

If  I  were  thou,  0  eagle  proud. 

And  screamed  the  thunder  back  aloud. 

And  faced  the  lightning  from  the  cloud, 

I  would  not  build  m}-  eyrie-throne, 
As  thou — upon  a  crumbling  stone, 
Which  the  next  storm  may  trample  dowu 


i04  WISDOM      UNAPPLIED. 

If  I  were  thou,  0  gullant  steed. 
With  pawing  hoof,  and  dancing  head, 
And  eye  outrunning  thine  own  speed, 

I  would  not  meeken  to  the  rein, 

As  thou — nor  smooth  my  nostril  plain 

From  the  glad  desert's  snort  and  strain 

If  I  were  thou,  red-breasted  bird. 
With  song  at  shut-up  window  heard, 
Like  Love's  sweet  yes  too  long  deferred, 

I  would  not  overstay  delight. 

As  thou — but  take  a  swallow-flight, 

Till  the  new  spring  returned  to  sight. 

While  yet  I  spake,  a  touch  was  laid 
Upon  my  brow,  whose  pride  did  fade 
And  thus,  trl^thought,  an  angel  said —     , 

"  If  I  were  thou  wlio  sing'st  this  song, 
Most  wise  for  others,  and  most  strong 
In  seeing  right  while  doing  wrong, 

"  I  would  not  waste  my  cares,  and  choose, 
As  thou — to  seek  what  thou  must  lose, 
Such  gains  as  perish  in  the  use. 

"  I  w^ould  not  work  where  none  can  win, 
As  thou — half  way  'twixt  giief  and  sin, 
But  look  above,  and  judge  within. 

"  I  would  not  let  my  pulse  beat  high, 
As  thou — towards  fame's  regality, 
Nor  yet  in  love's  great  jeopardy. 

"  I  would  not  champ  the  hard  cold  bit, 
As  thou — of  what  the  world  thinks  fit. 
But  take  God's  freedom,  using  it. 

"  I  would  not  play  earfh's  winter  out, 
As  thou — but  gird  my  soul  about, 
And  live  for  life  past  death  and  doubt. 

"  Then  sing,  0  singer ! — but  allow. 
Beast,  fly,  and  bird,  called  foolish  now, 
Are  wise  (for  all  tl^y  scorn)  as  thoul  " 


MEJIOUY      AND      HOPE, 


MEMORY    AND  HOPE. 

Back-lookinq  Memor}' 
And  prophet  Hope  both  sprang  from  out  t'.ie  ground  ; 
One,  where  the  tlasliing  of  Cherubic  sword 

Fell  sad,  in  Eden's  ward — 
And  one,  from  Kden  earth,  within  the  sound 
Of  the  four  rivers  lapsing  pleasantly, 
What  time  the  promise  after  curse  was  said — 

"  Thy  seed  shall  bruise  his  head." 

Poor  Memory's  1  train  is  wild, 
As  moonstruck  by  that  flaming  atmosphere 
When  she  was  born.     Her  deep  eyes  shine  and  shone 

With  light  that  conquereth  sun 
And  stars  to  wanner  paleness  year  by  year. 
With  odorous  gums,  she  niixeth  things  defiled. 
She  trampleth  down  earth's  grasses  green  and  sweet 

With  her  far-wandering  feet. 

She  plucketh  many  flowers. 
Their  beauty  on  her  bosom's  coldness  killing. 
She  teachetli  every  melanchol3'  sound 

To  winds  and  waters  round. 
She  droppeth  tears  with  seed  whore  man  is  tilling 
The  rugged  soil  in  his  exhausted  hours. 
She  smileth — ah  me!  in  her  smile  doth  go 

A  mood  of  deeper  woe. 

Hope  tripped  out  of  sight. 
Crowned  with  an  Eden  wreath  she  saw  not  witlier, 
And  went  a-nodding  through  the  wilderness 

With  brow  that  shone  no  less 
Than    a   sea-gull's    vving,    brought   nearer   by    rough 

weather ; 
Searching  the  treeless  rock  for  fruits  of  light ; 
Her  fair,  quick  feet  being  armed  from  stones  and  cold, 

By  slippers  of  pure  gold. 

Memory  did  Hope  much  wrong 
And,  while  she  dreamed,  her  slippers  stole  awa^-; 
But  still  she  wended  on  with  mirth  unheeding, 

Although  her  feet  were  bleeding, 
Till  Memor>'  tracked  her  on  a  certain  da}-, 
And  with  most  evil  eyes  did  searcli  her  long 
And  cruelly,  whereat  she  sank  to  ground 

Jn  a  stark  deadlj*  s wound. 


iOC  HUMAN     life's     MYSTERY. 

And  so  my  Hope  were  slain, 
Had  it  not  been  that  thou  wert  standing  near. 
Oh  Thou,  who  saidest  "  live,"  to  creatures  lying 

In  thoir  own  blood  and  dying! 
For  Thou  her  forehead  to  thine  heart  didst  rear 
And  ln:ll^e  its  silent  pulses  sinir  again — 
Pouring  a  new  light  o'er  her  darkened  eyne, 

With  tender  tears  from  Thine  1 

Therefore  my  Hope  arose 
From  out  her  swound  and  gazed  upon  Th^^  face, 
And,  meeting  there  that  soft,  subduing  look 

Which  Peter's  spirit  shook, 
Sank  downward  in  a  rapture  to  embrace 
Th}^  pierced  hands  and  feet  with  kisses  close, 
And  prayed  thee  to  assist  her'evermore 

To  "  reach  the  things  before." 

Then  gavest  thou  the  smile 
Whence  angel-wings  thrill  quick  like  summer  light- 
ning, 
Vouchsafing  rest  beside  thee,  where  she  never 

From  Love  and  Faith  mny  sever, — 
Whereat  the  Eden  crown  she  saw  not  whitening 
A  time  ago,  though  whitening  all  the  while, 
Reddened  with  life,  to  hear  the  Voice  which  talked 

To  Adam  as  he  walked. 


HUMAN  LIFE'S  MYSTERY. 

We  sow  the  glebe,  we  reap  the  corn. 

We  build  the  house  where  we  ma3'  rest. 
And  then,  at  moments,  suddenly. 
We  look  up  to  the  great  wide  sky, 
Enquiring  whei-efore  we  were  born  .  ,  . 
For  earnest,  or  for  jest  ? 

The  senses  folding  thick  and  dark 
About  the  stifled  soul  within, 

We  guess  diviner  things  beyond. 

And  yearn  to  them  with  yearning  fond; 

We  strike  out  blindly  to  a  mark 
Believed  in,  but  not  seen. 


HUMAN      life's     MTSTiiRY.  401 

We  vibrate  to  the  pant  and  thrill 

Wherewith  Eternit^y  has  curled 
In  serpent-twine  about  God's  seat; 
W^liile,  freshening;  upward  to  llis  feet, 
In  gradual  growth  His  full-leaved  will 

Expands  from  world  to  world. 

And,  in  the  tumult  and  excess 

Of  act  and  i)assion  under  sun, 
We  sometimes  hear — oh,  soft  and  far, 
As  silver  star  did  touch  with  star, 
The  kiss  of  Peace  and  Righteousness 

Through  all  things  that  are  done. 

God  keeps  his  holy  mysteries 

Just  on  tlie  outside  of  man's  dream. 

In  diapason  slow,  we  think 

To  hear  their  pinions  rise  and  sinA', 

While  they  float  pure  beneath  llis  eyes, 
Like  swans  adown  a  stream. 

Abstractions,  are  they,  from  the  forms 
Of  His  great  beauty  ? — exaltations 

From  His  great  glory  ? — strong  previsions 

Of  what  we  shall  be  ? — intuitions 

Of  what  we  are — in  calms  and  storms, 
Beyond  our  peace  smd  passions? 

Things  nameless  !  which,  in  passing  so, 

Do  stroke  us  with  a  subtle  grace. 
We  sa3\  "  Who  passes  ?" — they  are  dumb. 
We  cannot  see  them  go  or  come. 
Their  touches  fiiU  soft — cold— as  snow 

Upon  a  blind  man's  face. 

Yet,  touching,  so,  they  draw  above 

Our  common  thoughts  to  Heaven's  unkn:>WD  ; 
Our  dail}^  joy  and  pain,  advance 
To  a  divine  significance — 
Our  human  love — 0  mortal  love. 

That  light  is  not  its  own  1 

And,  sometimes,  horror  chills  our  blood 

To  be  so  near  such  mystic  Things, 
And  we  wrap  round  us,  for  defence, 
Our  purple  manners,  moods  of  sense — 
As  angels,  from  the  face  of  God, 

Stand  hidden  in  their  wings. 


408 


SONG     OF     THE     ROSE. 

And,  sometimes,  through  life's  heavy  s wound 
We  grope  for  them  !— with  strangled  breath 

We  stretch  our  hands  abroad  and  try 

To  reach  them  in  our  agon^^ 

And  widen,  so,  the  broad  life-wound 
Which  soon  is  large  enough  for  death. 


A  CHILD'S  THOUGHT  OF  GOD. 

They  say  that  God  liA^es  very  high. 

But  if  3'ou  look  above  the  pines 
You  cannot  see  our  God  ;  and  why  ? 

And  if  you  dig  down  in  the  mines 
You  never  see  Him  in  the  gold  ; 
Though,  from  Him,  all  that's'glory  shines. 

God  is  so  good.  He  wears  a  fold 

Of  heaven  and  earth  across  his  face — 
Like  secrets  kept,  for  love,  untold. 

But  still  I  feel  that  His  embrace 

Slides  down  by  thrill^,  through  all  things  made, 
Through  sight  and  sound  of  every  place. 

As  if  my  tender  mother  laid 

On  my  shut  lids,  her  kisses'  pressure, 

Half-waking  me  at  night,  and  said 

"Who    kissed    you    through    the    dark,  deat 
guesser?" 


SONG  OF  THE  KOSE. 

ATTRIBUTED   TO   SAPPHO. 

(^From  Achilles  Taliiis.") 

tp  Zeus  chose  us  a  King  of  the  flowers  in  his  mirth, 
He  would  call  to  the  rose  and  would  royally  crown 
it, 


A     DEAD     ROSE.  403 

For  the  rose,  ho,  the  rose !  is  the  grace  of  the  earth, 
Is  the  light  of  the  plants  that  are  growing  upon  it. 
For  the  rose,  ho,  the  rose  !  is  the  eye  of  the  flowers, 
Is  the  blush  of  the  meadows  that  feel  themselvca 
fair — 
Is  the  liglitning  of  beauty,  that  strikes  through  the 
bowers 
On  pale  lovers  who  sit  in  the  glow  unaware. 
Ho,  the  rose  breathes  of  love  1  ho,  the  rose  lifts  the 
cup 
To  the  red  lips  of  Cypris  invoked  for  a  guest ! 
Ho,  the  rose,  having  curled  its  sweet  leaves  for  the 
world, 
Takes  delight  in  the  motion  its  petals  keep  up. 
As  they  laugh  to  the  Wind  as  it  laughs   from  the 
west. 


A  DEAD  ROSE. 

O  ROSE,  who  dares  to  name  thee  ? 
No  longer  roseate  now,  nor  soft,  nor  sweet. 
But  pale,  and  hard,  and  dry,  as  stubble-wheat — 
Kept  seven  years  in  a  drawer — thy  titles  shame  thee. 

The  breeze  that  used  to  blow  thee 
Bet\veen  the  hedge-row  thorns,  and  take  away 
An  odor  up  the  lane  to  last  all  day — 

If  breathing  now — unsweetened  would  forego  thee. 

The  sun  that  used  to  smite  thee, 
And  mix  his  glory  in  thy  gorgeous  urn 
Till  beam  appeared  to  bloom,  and  flower  to  burn 

If  shining  now— with  not  a  hue  would  light  thee. 

The  dew  that  used  to  wet  thee, 
And,  white  first,  grow  incarnadined,  because 
It  lay  upon  thee  where  the  crimson  was — 

If  dropping  now — would  darken,  where  it  met  tliee 

The  fly  that  'lit  upon  thee, 
To  stretch  the  tendrils  of  its  tiny  feet 
Along  tliy  leaf's  pure  edges  after  heat — 

If  'lighting  now — would  coldly  overrun  thee. 
3.=i 


tlO  THE     exile's     return 

The  bee  that  once  did  suck  thee, 
And  build  thy  perfumed  ambers  up  his  hive, 
And  swoon  in  thee  for  joy,  till  scarce  alive — 

If  passing  now — would  blindly  overlook  thee. 

The  heart  doth  recognize  thee. 
Alone,  alone  !  the  heart  doth  smell  thee  sweet, 
Doth  view  thee  fair,  doth  judge  thee  most  complete, 

Perceiving  all  those  changes  that  disguise  thee. 

Yes,  and  the  heart  doth  owe  thee 
More  love,  dead  rose,  than  to  any  roses  bold 
Which  Julia  wears  at  dances,  smiling  cold  ! — 

Lie  still  upon  this  heart — which  breaks  below  thee  1 


THE  EXILE'S  RETURN. 

When  from  thee,  weeping  I  removed, 

And  from  my  land  for  years, 
I  thought  not  to  return,  Beloved, 

With  those  same  parting  tears. 
r  come  again  to  hill  and  lea. 

Weeping  for  thee. 

I  clasped  thine  hand,  when  standing  last 

Upon  the  shore  in  sight. 
The  land  is  green,  the  ship  is  fast, 

I  shall  be  there  to-night, 
/shall  be  there — no  longer  we — 

No  more  with  thee  ! 

Had  I  beheld  thee  dead  and  still, 

I  might  more  clearly  know, 
How  heart  of  thine  could  turn  as  chill 

As  hearts  bj^  nature  so ; 
How  change  could  touch  the  faisehood-free 

And  changeless  thee. 

But,  now  thy  fervid  looks  last-seen 

Within  my  soul  remain, 
'Tis  hard  to  think  that  they  have  been, 

To  be  no  more  again  ! 
That  I  shall  vainly  wait — ah  me  1 

A  word  from  thee. 


THE      SLEEP.  411 

I  could  not  bear  to  look  upon 

That  mound  of  funeral  claj', 
Where  one  sweet  voice  is  silence — one 

Ethereal  brow  decay. 
Where  all  thy  mortal  I  may  see, 

But  never  thee. 

For  thou  art  where  all  friends  are  gone 

Whose  parting  pain  is  o'er ; 
And  I,  who  love  and  weep  alone, 

Where  thou  wilt  weep  no  more, 
Weep  bitterly  and  selfishly, 

For  me,  not  Ihee. 

I  know,  Beloved,  thou  canst  not  know- 
That  I  endure  this  pain. 

For  saints  in  heaven,  the  Scriptures  show, 
Can  never  grieve  again — 

And  grief  known  mine,  even  there,  would  be 
Still  shared  by  thee. 


THE  SLEEP. 

"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.'' — Psalm  cxxvii.  2. 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar, 
Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep, 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is, 
For  gift  or  grace,  surpassing  this — 
"He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep?" 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's  heart,  to  be  unmoved. 
The  poet's  star-tuned  harp,  to  sweep. 
The  patriot's  voice,  to  teach  and  rouse, 
The  monarch's  crown,  to  light  the  brows  ?- 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 

A  little  faith  all  undisproved, 

A  little  dust  to  overweep. 

And  bitter  memories  to  make 

The  whole  oartli  blasted  for  our  sake. 

He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 


dl2  THE     SLEEP. 

"  Sleep  soft,  beloved  !"  we  sometimes  say, 

But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  e^^elids  creep. 

But  never  doleful  dream  again 

Shall  break  the  happ}'  slumber  Avhen 

He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises  ! 
O  men,  with  Mailing  in  your  voices  ! 
O  delved  gold,  the  waiter's  heap  ! 

0  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall ! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  30U  all, 
And  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill ; 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still. 
Though  on  its  sloi^e  men  sow  and  reap. 
More  soft!}'  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

Ay,  men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man 
Confirmed  in  such  a  rest  to  keep  ; 
But  angels  sa}-,  and  through  the  word 

1  think  their  happy  smile  is  heard — 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 

For  me,  my  heart  that  erst  did  go 

Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show. 

That  sees  through  tears  the  mummers  leap, 

Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close. 

Would  childlike  on  his  love  repose, 

Who  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

And,  friends,  dear  friends — when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me. 
And  round  my  bier  3'e  come  to  weep, 
Let  One,  most  loving  of  you  all, 
Sa}',  "  Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall; 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 


cow  per' S     GRAA'E.  413 


THE  MEASURE. 

'  He  comprehends  the  dust  of  the  earth  in  a  measure  fty'7tl').' 

Isaiah  xl. 

"  Thou  givest  them  tears  to  drink  in  a  measure  (iy'bti')."* 

I'sabn  ixxx 

God,  the  Creator,  with  a  pulseless  hand 
Of  unoriginated  power,  hath  weighed 
The  dust  of  earth  and  tears  of  man  in  one 

Measure,  and  b}'  one  weight. 

So  saith  His  hol^^  book. 

Shall  we,  then,  who  have  issued  from  the  dust, 
And  there  return — shall  we,  who  toil  for  dust, 
And  wrap  our  winnings  in  this  dusty  life, 

Say,  "  No  more  tears,  Lord  God  ! 

The  measure  runneth  o'er  ?  " 

Oh,  Holder  of  the  balance,  laughest  thou  ? 
Nay,  Lord  I  be  gentler  to  our  foolishness. 
For  His  sake  who  assumed  our  dust  and  turns 
On  thee  pathetic  e3'es 
Still  moistened  with  our  tears. 

And  teach  us,  0  our  Father,  while  we  weep, 
To  look  in  patience  upon  earth  and  learn — 
Waiting,  in  that  meek  gesture,  till  at  last 

These  tearful  e^'es  be  filled 

With  the  dry  dust  of  death. 


COWPER'S  GRAVE. 

It  is  a  place  where  poets  crowned  may  feel  the  heart's 

decaying. 
It  is  a  place  where  happy  saints  may  weep  amid  their 

praying. 
Yet  let  the  grief  and  humbleness,  as  low  as   silence, 

languish. 
Earth  surely  now  may  give  her  calm  to  whom  she  gave 

her  anguish. 

*  I  believe  that  the  word  occurs  in  no  other  pai-t  of  the  nelirevt 
Scriptures. 

35* 


414  COWPER'S     QRA.VE. 

0  poets,  from  a  maniac's  tongue  was  poured  the  death- 
less singing  ! 

0  Christians,  at  your  cross  of  hope,  a  hopeless  hand 
was  clinging  ! 

0  men,  this  man  in  brotherhood  your  weary  paths  be- 
guiling, 

Groaned  inly  while  he  taught  you  peace,  and  died 
while  ye  were  smiling  1 

And  now,  what  time^^e  all  may  read  through  dimming 
tears  his  story, 

How  discord  on  "the  music  fell,  and  darkness  on  the 
glory, 

And  how  when,  one  by  one,  sweet  sounds  and  wander- 
ing lights  departed. 

He  wore  no  less  a  loving  face  because  so  broken- 
hearted. 

He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctifiy  the  poet's  high  vocation, 

And  bow  the  meekest  Christian  down  in  meeker  adora- 
tion. 

Nor  ever  shall  he  be,  in  praise,  by  wise  or  good  for 
saken. 

Named  softly  as  the  household  name  of  one  whom 
God  hath  taken. 

With  quiet  sadness  and  no  gloom  I  learn  to  think  upon 

him — 
With    meekness  that  is    gratefulness  to    God    whose 

heaven  hath  won  him, 
Who  suffered  once  the  madness-cloud  to  His  own  love 

to  blind  him. 
But  gently  led  the  blind  along  where  breath  and  bird 

could  find  him, 

And  wrought  within  his  shattered  brain  such  quick 
poetic  senses 

As  hills  have  language  for,  and  stars,  harmonious  in- 
fluences. 

The  pulse  of  dew  upon  the  grass,  kept  his  within  its 
number. 

And  silent  shadows  from  the  trees  refreshed  him  like 
a  slumber. 

Wild  timid  hares  were  drawn  from  woods  to  share  hia 

home-caresses, 
Uplooking  to   his   human   e3'es  with   sylvan   tender. 

aesses. 


cowper's    grave.  415 

The  vtvy  v;crlcl,  by  God's  constraint,  from  falsehood's 

ways  removing, 
Its  women  and  its  men  became,  beside  him,  true  and 

loving. 

And  though,  in  blindness,  he  remained  unconscious  of 
that  guiding, 

And  things  provided  came  without  the  sweet  sense  of 
providing, 

He  testified  this  solemn  truth,  while  phrenzy  deso- 
lated, 

—Nor  man  nor  nature  satisfy  whom  only  God  created. 

Like  a  sick  child  that  knoweth  not  his  mother  while 

she  blesses 
And  drops  upon  his  burning  brow  the  coolness  of  her 

kisses — 
That   turns  his  fevered  e^'es  around — "My  mother  1 

Where's  m}'  mother?" — 
As  if  such  tender  words  and  deeds  could  come  from 

an}'  other ! — 

The  fever  gone,  with  leaps  of  heart  he  sees  her  bend- 
ing o'er  him, 

Her  face  all  pale  from  watchful  love,  the  unweary  love 
she  bore  him  ! — 

Thus,  woke  the  poet  from  the  dream  his  life's  long 
fever  gave  him. 

Beneath  those  deep  pathetic  Eyes,  which  closed  in 
death  to  save  him. 

Thus  ?  oh,  not  thus  !  no  tj-pe  of  earth  can  image  that 

awaking. 
Wherein  he  scarcely  heard  the  chant  of  seraphs  round 

him  breaking, 
Or  felt  the  new  immortal  throb  of  soul   from    body 

parted, 
But  felt  those  eyes  alone,  and  knew — "  3Iy  Saviour  1 

not  deserted  I" 

Deserted  1  Who  hath  dreamt  that  when  the  cross  in 
darkness  rested. 

Upon  the  Victim's  hidden  face,  no  love  was  mani- 
fested ? 

What  frantic  hands  outstretched  have  e'er  the  atoning 
drops  averted  ? 

What  tears  have  washed  them  from  the  soul,  that  one 
should  be  deserted  ? 


tl6  THE     WEAKEST     THING. 

Deserted !     God  could  separate  from  His  own  essence 

rather ; 
And  Adam's  sins  have  swept  between  tlae  righteous 

Son  and  Father. 
Yea,  once,  Immanuel's  orphaned  cry  his  universe  hath 

shaken — 
It  went  up  single,  echoless,  "  My  God,  I  am  forsaken  !" 

It  went  up  from  the  Holy's  lips  amid  his  lost  creation, 
That,  of  the  lost,  no  sou  should  use  those  words  of 

desolation  ! 
That  earth's  worst    phrcnzies,  marring  hope,  should 

mar  not  hope's  fruition, 
And  I,  on  Cowper's  grave,  should  see  his  rapture  in  a 

vision. 


THE  WEAKEST  THING. 

Which  is  the  weakest  thing  of  all 

Mine  heart  can  ponder? 
The  sun,  a  little  cloud  can  pall 

With  darkness  3-onder  ? 
The  cloud,  a  little  wind  can  move 

Where'er  it  listeth  ? 
The  wind,  a  little  leaf  above, 

Though  sere,  resisteth  ? 

What  time  that  j-ellow  leaf  was  green, 

My  da3's  were  gladder  ; 
But  now,  whatever  Spring  may  mean, 

I  must  grow  sadder. 
Ah  me  !  a  leaf  with  sighs  can  wring 

My  lips  asunder  ? 
Then  is  mine  heart  the  weakest  thing 

Itself  can  ponder. 

Yet,  Heart,  when  sun  and  cloud  arc  pined 

And  drop  together, 
And  at  a  blast  which  is  not  wind, 

The  forests  wither, 
Thou,  from  the  darkening  deathly'  curse, 

To  glory  breakest — 
The  Strongest  of  the  universe 

Guarding  the  weakest  I 


THE     PET-NAME.  411 


THE  PET-NAME. 

the  name 

Which  frjm  their  lips  seemed  a  caress 

Miss  Mitkord's  Dramalk  Scene* 

I  HAVE  a  name,  a  little  name, 

XJncadenced  for  the  ear, 
TJnhonored  by  ancestral  claim, 
Unsanctified  by  prayer  and  psalm 

The  solemn  font  ancar. 

It  never  did,  to  pages  wove 

For  gay  romance,  belong. 
It  never  dedicate  did  move 
As  "  Scharissa,"  unto  love — ■ 

"  Oriuda,"  unto  song. 

Though  I  write  books  it  will  be  read 

Upon  the  leaves  of  none, 
And  afterward,  when  I  am  dead. 
Will  ne'er  be  graved  for  sight  or  tread, 

Across  my  funeral-stone. 

This  name,  whoever  chance  to  call, 

Perhaps  your  smile  may  win. 
Nay,  do  not  smile !  mine  eyelids  fall 
Over  mine  eyes,  and  feel  withal 

The  sudden  tears  within. 

Is  there  a  leaf  that  greenly  grows 
Where  summer  meadows  bloom, 
But  gathereth  the  winter  snows, 
And  changeth  to  the  hue  of  those, 
If  lasting  till  they  come  ? 

Is  thei:e  a  word,  or  jest,  or  game. 

But  time  encrusteth  round 
With  sad  associate  thoughts  the  same  f 
And  so  to  me  my  very  name 

Assuriies  a  mournful  sound. 

My  brother  gave  that  name  to  me 
When  we  were  children  twain — 

When  names  acquired  baptismally 

Were  hard  to  utter,  as  to  see 
That  life  had  any  pain. 
2B 


1 18  THE     MOURNING      MOTHER. 

No  shade  was  on  us  then,  save  one 

Of  chestnuts  from  the  hill — 
And  through  the  word  our  laugh  did  run 
As  part  thereof.     Tlie  mirth  being  done, 
He  calls  me  by  it  still. 

Nay,  do  not  smile  !  I  hear  in  it 

What  none  of  you  con  hear — 
The  talk  upon  the  willow  seat, 
The  bird  and  wind  that  did  repeat 
Around,  our  human  cheer. 

I  hear  the  birthday's  noisy  bliss, 

M}^  sisters'  woodland  glee — 
My  father's  praise,  I  did  not  miss, 
When  stooping  down  he  cared  to  kiss 

The  poet  at  his  knee — 

And  voices,  which,  to  name  me,  a3'e 

Their  tenderest  tones  were  keeping — 
To  some  I  never  more  can  say 
An  answer,  till  God  wipes  away 
In  heaven  these  drops  of  weeping. 

M}^  name  to  me  a  sadness  wears, 

No  murmurs  cross  my  mind. 
Now  God  be  thanked  for  these  thick  tears, 
Which  show,  of  those  departed  years, 
Sweet  memories  left  behind. 

Now  God  be  thanked  for  years  enwrought 

With  love  which  softens  yet. 
Now  God  be  thanked  for  every  thought 
Which  is  so  tender  it  has  caught 
Earth's  guerdon  of  regret. 

Earth  saddens,  never  shall  remove; 

Affections  purely  given  ; 
And  e'en  that  mortal  grief  shall  prove 
The  immortality  of  love, 

And  heiahten  it  with  Heaven. 


THE  MOURNING  MOTHEE. 

(of  the  dead    blind.) 

Post  thou  weep,  mourning  mother, 
For  thy  blind  boy  in  the  grave  ? 


THE     MOURNING     MOTHER,  419 

That  no  move  with  each  other, 

Sweet  counsel  ye  can  have  ?— 
That  he,  left  dark  by  nature, 

Can  never  more  be  led 
B3'  thee,  maternal  creature, 

Along  smooth  paths  instead  ? 
That  tliou  canst  no  more  show  him 

The  sunshine,  by  the  heat : 
The  river's  silver  tlowing. 

By  murmurs  at  his  feet  ? 
The  foliage,  by  its  coolness  ; 

The  roses,  by  their  smell ; 
And  all  creation's  fulness. 

By  Love's  invisible  ? 
Weepest  thou  to  behold  not 

His  meek  blind  eyes  again — 
Closed  doorways  wliich  were  folded, 

And  prayed  against  in  vain — 
And  under  Avhich,  sat  smiling 

The  child-mouth  evermore. 
As  one  who  watcheth,  wiling 

The  time  by,  at  a  door? 
And  weepest  thou  to  feel  not 

His  clinging  hand  on  thine — 
Which  now,  at  dream-time,  will  not 

Its  cold  touch  disentwine  ? 
And  weepest  thou  still  ofter, 

Oh,  never  more  to  mark 
His  low,  soft  words,  made  softer 

By  speaking  in  the  dark  ? 
Weep  on,  thou  mourning  mother  I 

But  since  to  him  when  livino- 

Thou  wast  both  sun  and  moon, 
Look  o'er  his  grave,  survivino- 

From  a  high  sphere  alone. 
Sustain  that  exaltation. 

Expand  that  tender  light. 
And  hold  in  mother-passion 

Thy  Blessed  in  thy  sight. 
See  how  he  Avent  out  straightway 

From  tlie  dark  world  he  knew^. 
No  twilight  in  the  gateAvay 

To  mediate  'twixt  the  two — 

Into  the  sudden  glory. 
Out  of  the  dark  he' trod. 


420  A     VALEDICTION. 

Departing  from  before  thee 

At  once  to  light  and  God  ! — ■ 
For  the  first  face,  beholding 

The  Christ's  in  its  divine, 
For  the  first  place,  the  golden 

And  tideless  hyaline; 
With  trees,  at  lasting  summer, 

That  rock  to  songful  sound, 
While  angels,  the  nevv-conier, 

Wrap  a  still  smile  around. 
Oh,  in  the  blessed  psalm  now. 

His  happy  A'oice  he  tries. 
Spreading  a  thicker  palm-boiigh. 

Than  others,  o'er  his  e^'es  i 
Yet  still,  in  all  the  singing. 

Thinks  haply  of  th}'  song 
Which,  in  his  life's  first  springing. 

Sang  to  him  all  night  long. 
And  wishes  it  beside  him. 

With  kissing  lips  that  cool 
And  soft  did  overglide  him, 

To  make  the  sweetness  full. 
Look  up,  0  mourning  mother. 

Thy  blind  boy  walks  in  light ! 
Ye  wait  for  one  another, 

Before  God's  infinite. 
But  thou  art  now  the  darkest, 

Thou  mother  left  below — 
Thou,  the  sole  blind — thou  markest, 

Content  that  it  be  so — 
Until  ye  two  have  meeting 

Where  Heaven's  pearl-gate  is, 
And  he  shall  lead  thy  feet  in, 

As  once  thou  leddest  his. 
Wait  on,  thou  mourning  mother. 


A  VALEDICTION. 

God  be  with  thee,  my  beloved — God  be  with  thee  ! 

Else  alone  thou  goe«t  forth, 

Thy  face  unto  the  north. 
Moor  and  pleasance  all  around  thee  and  beneath  thee 


A      VALEDICTION  421 

Looking  equal  in  one  snow ; 
While  I  who  try  to  reach  thee, 
Vainly  follow,  vainly  follow, 
With  the  farewell  and  the  hollo, 
And  cannot  reach  thee  so. 
Alas,  I  can  liut  teach  thee. 
God  be  with  thee  my  beloved — God  be  with  thee. 

Can  1  teach  thee  my  beloved — can  I  teach  thee  ? 

If  I  said,  "  Go  left  or  right," 

The  counsel  would  be  light, 
The  wisdom,  poor  of  all  that  could  enrich  thee, 

My  right  would  show  like  left ; 

My  raising  would  depress  thee, 

My  choice  of  light  would  blind  thee, 

Of  wa}'',  would  leave  behind  thee, 

Of  end,  would  leave  bereft, 

Alas,  I  can  but  bless  thee ! 
May  God  teach   thee,  my  beloved — may   God   teach 
thee. 

Can  I  bless  thee  my  beloved — can  I  bless  thee  ? 

What  blessing  word  can  I, 

From  mine  own  tears  keep  dry  ? 
What  flowers   grow  in  my  field  wherewith  to  dress 
thee? 

My  good  reverts  to  ill ; 

]\Iy  calmnesses  would  move  thee, 

My  softnesses  would  prick  thee, 

My  bindings  up  would  break  thee, 

My  crownings,  curse  and  kill. 

Alas,  I  can  but  love  thee! 
May  God  bless  thee  my  beloved — may  God  bless  thee. 

Can  I  love  thee,  my  beloved — can  I  love  thee  ? 

And  is  this  like  love,  to  stand 

With  no  help  in  my  hand. 
When  strong  as  death  I  fain  would  watch  above  thee? 

My  love-kiss  can  deny 

No  tear  that  falls  beneath  it ; 

Mine  oath  of  love  can  swear  thee 

From  no  ill  that  comes  near  thee — 
;  And  thou  diest  while  I  breathe  it, 

'  And  I — 1  can  but  die! 

May  God  love  thee  my  beloved — may  God  love  tbee 

36 


422  THE    lady's    yes. 


LESSONS  FROM   THE  GORSE. 

"To  win  the  secret  of  a  weed's  plain  heart." 

Lowell. 

Mountain  gorses,  ever  golden, 
Cankered  not  the  whole  year  long! 
Do  ye  teach  us  to  be  strong, 
Howsoever  pricked  and  holden 
Like  3'oar  thorn^'^  blooms,  and  so 
Trodden  on  b}'^  rain  and  snow, 
Up  the  hill-side  of  this  life,  as  bleak  as  Avhere  ye  grow  ? 

Mountain  blossoms,  shining  blossoms, 
Do  ye  teach  us  to  be  glad 
When  no  summer  can  be  had, 
Blooming  in  our  inward  bosoms? 
Ye,  whom  God  preserveth  still — 
Set  as  lights  upon  a  hill, 
Tokens  to  the  wintry  earth  that  Beauty  liveth  still  1 

Mountain  gorses,  do  ye  teach  us 
From  that  academic  chair, 
Canopied  with  azure  air. 
That  the  wisest  word  man  reaches 
Is  the  humblest  he  can  speak  ? 
Ye,  who  live  on  mountain  peak, 
Yet  live  low  along  the  ground,  beside  the  grasses  meek ! 

Mountain  gorses,  since  Linnaeus 
Knelt  beside  j'ou  on  the  sod, 
For  3'our  beauty  thanking  God — 
For  your  teaching,  ye  should  see  us 
Bowing  in  prostration  new  ! 
Whence  arisen — if  one  or  two 
Drops  be  on  our  cheeks — 0  world,  they  are  net  tear.s 
but  dew. 


THE    LADY'S  YES 

"Yes,"  I  answered  3^ou  last  nignti; 
"  No,"  this  morning,  sir,  I  say. 


A    woman's    shortcomings  42a 

Colors  seen  by  candle-light 
Will  not  look  the  same  by  day. 

When  the  viols  plaj-ed  their  best, 
Lamps  above,  and  laughs  below, 

Love  me  sounded  like  a  jest,  i 

Fit  for  yes  or  fit  for  no.  ' 

Call  me  false  or  call  me  free — 
Vow,  whatever  liglit  may  shine, 

No  man  on  your  face  shall  see 
Any  grief,  for  change  on  mine. 

Yet  the  sin  is  on  us  both  ; 

Time  to  dance  is  not  to  woo; 
Wooing  light  makes  fickle  troth, 

Scorn  of  me  recoils  on  you. 

Learn  to  win  a  lad3;'s  faith 

Nobly,  as  the  thing  is  high, 
Bravely,  as  for  life  and  death — 

With  a  loyal  gravity. 

Lead  her  from  tlie  festive  boards. 

Point  her  to  tlio  starry  skies, 
Guard  her,  by  your  trutliful  words, 

Pure  from  courtship's  flatteries. 

By  your  truth  she  shall  be  true, 

Ever  true,  as  wives  of  yore  ; 
And  her  yes,  once  said  to  3'ou, 

Shall  be  Yes  for  evermore. 


A  WOMAN'S  SHORTCOMINGS. 

She  has  laughed  as  softly  as  if  she  sighed, 

She  has  counted  six,  and  over. 
Of  a  purse  well  filled,  and  a  heart  well  tried— 

Oh,  eacii  a  worthy  lover  !  . 

They  "give  her  time  ;  "  for  her  soul  must  slip 

Whei'e  the  world  has  set  the  grooving. 
She  will  lie  to  none  with  lier  fair  red  lip 

But  love  seeks  truer  loving. 


424  A    man's    requirements 

She  trembles  her  fan  in  a  sweetness  dumb, 

As  her  thoughts  were  beyond  recalling, 
With  a  glance  for  one,  and  a  glance  for  some, 

From  her  eyelids  rising  and  fallino- : 
Speaks  common  words  with  a  blubhf^il  air, 

Hears  bold  words,  un reproving:; 
But  her  silence  says — what  she  never  will  swear— 

And  love  seeks  better  lovino-. 

Go.  lady,  lean  to  the  night-guitar, 

And  drop  a  smile  to  the  bringer. 
Then  smile  as  sweetly,  when  he  is  far, 

At  the  voice  of  an  in-door  singei*. 
Bask  tenderly  beneath  tender  eyes  ; 

Glance  lightly,  on  their  removing  ; 
And  join  new  vows  to  old  perjuries — 

But  dare  not  call  it  loving. 

Unless  you  can  think,  when  the  song  is  done. 

No  other  is  soft  in  tiie  rhythm  ; 
Unless  you  can  feel,  when  left  by  One, 

That  all  men  else  go  with  him  ; 
Unless  you  can  know,  when  unpralsed  by  his  breath. 

That  your  beauty  itself  wants  proving;         ' 
Unless  you  can  swear,  "  For  life,  for  death  !  " — 

Oh,  fear  to  call  it  lovino^ ! 

Unless  you  can  muse  in  a  crowd  all  day, 

On  the  absent  face  that  fixed  you  ; 
Unless  you  can  love,  as  the  angels  may, 

With  the  breadth  of  heaven  betwixt  you  ; 
Unless  you  can  dream  that  his  faith  is  fast, 

Through  behooving  and  unbehooving  ; 
Unless  you  can  die  when  the  dream  is  past — 

Oh,  never  call  it  loving ! 


A  MAN'S  REQUIREMENTS. 

Love  me,  sweet,  with  all  thou  art, 
Feeling,  thinking,  seeing — 

Love  me  in  the  lightest  part, 
Tiove  me  in  full  being. 


A    man's   requieements.  12; 

Love  me  with  thine  open  j-outh 

In  its  frank  surrender  ; 
With  the  vowing  of  thy  mouth, 

With  its  silence  tender. 

Love  me  with  thine  azure  eyes, 

Made  for  earnest  granting ! 
Taking  color  from  the  skies, 

Can  Heaven's  truth  be  wanting  ? 

Love  me  with  their  lids,  that  fall 

Snow-like  at  first  meeting. 
Love  me  with  thine  heart,  that  all 

The  neighbors  then  see  beating. 

Love  me  with  thine  hand  stretched  out 

Freely — open-minded. 
Love  me  with  thy  loitering  foot — 

Hearing  one  behind  it. 

Love  me  with  thy  voice,  that  turns 

Sudden  faint  above  me  ; 
Love  me  with  thy  blush  that  burns 

When  I  murmur,  Love  me! 

Love  me  with  thj^  thinking  soul — 

Break  it  to  love-sighing  ; 
Love  me  with  thy  thoughts  that  roll, 

On  through  living — dying. 

Love  me  in  thy  gorgeous  airs, 

When  the  world  has  crowned  thee 

Love  me,  kneeling  at  thy  prayers, 
With  the  angels  round  thee. 

Love  me  pure,  as  musers  do, 

Up  the  woodlands  shavly. 
Love  me  gaily,  fast,  and  true, 

As  a  winsome  lady. 

Through  all  hopes  that  keep  us  brave, 

Further  off  or  nigher. 
Love  me  for  the  house  and  grave — 

And  for  something  higher. 

Thus,  if  thou  wilt  prove  me,  dear. 

Woman's  love  no  fable, 
/  will  love  thee — half-a-year— » 

As  a  man  is  able 
36* 


426  A     YEAE'S     SriNNING. 


A  YEAR'S  SPINNIXG. 

He  listened  at  the  porch  that  day, 
To  hear  the  wheel  go  on,  and  on : 

And  then  it  stopped— ran  back  away — 
While  through  the  door  he  brought  the  sua 
But  now  my  spinning  is  all  done. 

He  sat  beside  me,  with  an  oath 

That  love  ne'er  ended,  once  begun. 

I  smiled — believing  for  us  both, 
What  was  the  truth  for  only  one. 
And  now  my  spinning  is  all  done. 

My  mother  cursed  me  that  I  heard 
A  young  man's  wooing  as  I  spun. 

Thanks,  cruel  mother,  for  that  word — 
For  I  have,  since,  a  harder  known : 
And  now  my  spinning  is  all  done. 

1  thought— 0  God  !— my  first-born's  cry 
Both  voices  to  mine  ear  would  drown. 

I  listened  in  mine  agony — 

It  was  the  Mence  made  me  groan  ! 
And  now  my  spinning  is  all  done. 

Bury  me  'twixt  my  mother's  grave, 

(Who  cursed  me  on  her  death-bed  lone) 

And  my  dead  baby's,  (God  it  save!) 
Who^  not  to  bless  me,  would  not  moaa 
And  now  ni}^  spinning  is  all  done. 

A  stone  upon  my  heart  and  head. 
But  no  name  written  on  the  stone  ! 

Sweet  neighbors,  whisper  low  instead, 
"  This  sinner  was  a  loving  one — 
And  now  her  spinning  is  all  done." 

And  let  the  door  ajar  remain. 
In  case  he  should  pass  by  anon  ; 

And  leave  the  wheel  out  very  plain- 
That  HE,  when  passing  in  the  sun, 
May  see  the  spinning  is  all  done. 


TUAT     DAY.  421 


CHANGE  UPON   CHANGE. 

Five  months  ago,  tlie  stream  did  flow, 

The  lilies  bloomed  within  the  sedge, 
And  we  were  lingering  to  and  fro, 
Where  none  will  track  thee  in  this  snow, 

Along  the  stream,  beside  the  eda'e. 
Ah,  sweet,  be  free  to  love  and  go  I 

For  if  I  do  not  hear  thy  foot, 

The  frozen  river  is  as  mute, 

The  flowers  have  dried  down  to  the  root. 

And  why,  since  these  be  changed  since  May, 

Shouldst  thou  change  less  than  they'? 

And  slow,  slow,  as  the  winter  snow, 
The  tears  have  drilled  to  mine  ej-es ; 

And  my  poor  cheeks,  live  months  ago, 

Set  blushing  at  thy  praises  so, 
Put  paleness  on  for  a  disguise. 

Ah,  sweet,  be  free  to  praise  and  go  1 
For  if  my  face  is  turned  too  pale. 
It  was  thine  oath  that  first  did  fail — 
It  was  thy  love  proved  false  and  frail ! 
And  why,  since  these  be  changed  enow, 
Should  /  chansce  less  than  thou  ? 


THAT  DAY. 

1  STAND  by  the  river  where  both  of  us  stood, 
And  there  is  but  one  shadow  to  darken  the  flood  ; 
And  the  path  leading  to  it,  where  both  used  to  pass, 
lias  the  step  but  of  one,  to  take  dew  from  the  grass- 
One  forlorn  since  that  day 

The  flowers  of  the  margin  are  many  to  see  ; 
None  stoops  at  my  bidding  to  pluck  them  for  me 
Th3  bird  in  the  alder  sings  loudly  and  long — 
My  low  sound  of  weeping  disturbs  not  his  song. 

As  thy  vow  did  that  day 

1  stand  by  the  river — I  think  of  the  vow — 
Oh,  calm  as  tlie  place  is,  vow-breaker,  be  thou  I 


428  THE     RUNAWAY     SLAVE 

I  leave  the  flower  growing,  the  bird,  unreproved  ;— 
Would  1  trouble  thee  rather  than  them,  my  beloved, 

And  my  lover  that  day  ? 

Go,  be  sure  of  my  love — by  that  treason  forgiven  ; 
Of  my  prayers— by  the  blessings  they  win  thee  from 

Heaven ; 
Of  my  grief— (guess  the  length  of  the  sword  by  the 

sheath's) 
By  the  silence  of  life,  more  pathetic  than  death's  1 

Gro — be  clear  of  that  day  1 


A  REED. 

I  AM  no  trumpet,  but  a  reed  : 

No  flattering  breath  shall  from  me  lead 

A  silver  sound,  a  hollow  sound. 
I  will  not  wring,  for  priest  or  king. 
One  blast  that  ni  re-echoing 

Would  leave  a  bondsman  faster  bound 

I  am  no  trumpet,  but  a  reed — 
A  broken  reed,  the  wind  indeed 

Left  flat  upon  a  dismal  shore  ; 
Yet  if  a  little  maid,  or  child, 
Should  sigh  within  it,  earnestrmild, 

This  reed  will  answer  evermore. 

I  am  no  trumpet,  but  a  reed. 
Go,  tell  the  fishers,  as  they  spread 

Their  nets  along  the  river's  edge, 
I  will  not  tear  their  nets  at  all, 
Kor  pierce  their  hands,  if  they  should  fall. 

Then  let  them  leave  me  in  the  sedge 


THE     RUNAWAY     SLAVE    AT    PILGRIM'S 
POINT. 

I  STAND  on  the  mark  beside  the  shore 
Of  the  first  w^hite  pilgrim's  bended  knee, 


AT    pilgrim's    point.  429 

Where  exile  turned  to  ancestor, 

And  God  was  thanked  for  liberty-. 
T  have  run  through  the  nijrht,  my  skin  is  as  lark, 
I  bend  my  knee  down  on  this  mark  .  . 

I  look  on  the  sky  and  the  sea. 

0  pilgrim-souls,  I  si)eak  to  you  ! 

1  see  you  come  out  proud  and  slow 
From  the  land  of  the  spirits  pale  as  dew, 

And  round  me  and  round  me  ye  go  ! 

0  pilgrims,  I  have  gasped  and  run 
All  night  long  from  the  whips  of  one 

Who  in  3'our  names  work  sin  and  woe. 

And  thus  I  thought  that  I  would  come 
And  kneel  here  where  ye  knelt  before. 

And  feel  your  souls  around  me  hum 
In  undertone  to  the  ocean's  roar  ; 

And  lift  m}^  black  face,  my  black  hand 

Here,  in  3*onr  names,  to  curse  this  laud 
Ye  blessed  in  freedom's  evermore. 

1  am  black,  I  am  black  ! 

And  yet  God  made  me,  they  say, 
But  if  He  did  so,  smiling  back 

He  must  have  cast  his  work  away 
Under  the  feet  of  his  white  creatures, 
With  !t  look  of  scorn — tliat  the  dusky  features 

Might  be  trodden  again  to  cla}'. 

And  yet  he  has  made  dark  things 

To  be  glad  and  merry  as  light. 
There's  a  little  dark  bird,  sits  and  sings ; 

Tliere's  a  dark  stream  ripples  out  of  sight ; 
And  the  dark  frogs  chant  in  the  safe  morass, 
And  the  sweetest  stars  are  made  to  pass 

O'er  the  face  of  the  darkest  night. 

But  ice  who  are  dark,  we  are  dark! 

Ah  God,  we  have  no  stars! 
About  our  souls  in  care  and  cark 

Our  blackness  shuts  like  prison-bars. 
Tlie  poor  souls  crouch  so  far  behind. 
That  never  a  comfort  can  they  find 

By  reaching  through  the  prison-bars 

Indeed  we  live  beneath  the  sky, 
That  great  smooth  hand  of  God  Btretched  out 


t30  THE      RUNAWAY      SLAVE 

Oil  all  His  children  fatherly, 

To  save  them  from  the  dread  and  doubt 
Which  would  be,  if,  from  this  low  place, 
All  opened  straight  up  to  His  face 

Into  the  grand  eternity. 

And  still  God's  sunshine  and  His  frost. 

They  make  us  hot,  they  make  us  cold, 
As  if  we  were  not  black  and  lost ; 

And  the  beasts  and  l)irds,  in  wood  and  fold, 
Do  fear  and  take  us  for  very  men  ! 
Could  the  whip-poor-will  or  the  cat  of  the  glen 

Look  into  my  eyes  and  be  bold  ? 

I  am  black,  I  am  black  !— 

But,  once,  I  laughed  in  girlish  glee, 

For  one  of  my  color  stood  in  the  track 

Where  the  "drivers  drove,  and  looked  at  me. 

And  tender  and  full  was  the  look  he  gave— 

Could  a  slave  look  so  at  another  slave  ?- 
1  look  at  the  sky  and  the  sea. 

And  from  that  hour  our  spirits  grew 

As  free  as  if  unsold,  unbought. 
Oh,  strong  enough,  since  we  were  two, 

To  conquer  the  world,  we  thought! 
The  drivers  drove  us  day  by  day  ; 
We  did  not  mind,  we  went  one  way, 

And  no  better  a  freedom  sought. 

In  the  sunny  ground  between  the  canes. 
He  said,  "  f  love  you,"  as  he  passed  : 

When  the  shingle-roof  rang  sharp  with  the  rains. 
1  heard  how  he  vowed  it  fast. 

While  others  shook  he  smiled  in  the  hut. 

As  he  carved  me  a  bowl  of  the  cocoa-nut 
Through  the  roar  of  the  hurricanes. 

I  sang  his  name  instead  of  a  song, 

Over  and  over  1  sang  his  name — 
Upward  and  downward  I  drew  it  along 

.My  various  notes — the  same,  the  same! 
I  sang  it  low,  that  the  slave-girls  near 
Might  never  guess  from  aught  they  could  hear, 

It  was  only  a  name — a  name. 

I  look  on  the  sky  and  the  sea. 

We  were  two  to  love  and  two  to  praj' — 


AT    pilgrim's    point.  431 

Yes,  two,  0  God,  who  cried  to  Thee, 

Though  nothing  didst  Thou  say. 
Coklly  Thou  sat'st  behind  the  sun  ! 
And  now  I  cry  who  am  but  one, 

Thou  wilt  not  speak  to-day. 

We  were  black,  we  were  black. 

We  had  no  claim  to  love  and  bliss, 
What  marvel,  if  each  went  to  wrack? 

They  wrung  my  cold  hands  out  of  his — 
They   dragged  him  .  .  .  where  ?  .  .  I    ci'awled    to 

touch 
Uis  blood's  mark  in  the  dust !  .  .  not  much. 

Ye  pilgrim-souls,  .  .  tiiough  plain  as  ^/j,is/ 

Wrong,  followed  by  a  deeper  wrong! 

Mere  grief's  too  good  for  such  as  I. 
So  the  white  men  brought  the  shame  ere  long 

To  strangle  the  sob  of  my  agony. 
They  would  not  leave  me  for  my  dull. 
Wet  eyes  ! — it  was  too  merciful 

To  let  me  weep  pure  tears  and  die. 

I  am  black,  I  am  black  ! 

1  wore  a  child  upon  my  breast  .  .  . 
An  amulet  that  hung  too  slack, 

And,  in  my  unrest,  could  not  rest. 
Thus  we  went  moaning,  child  and  mother, 
One  to  another,  one  to  another, 

Until  all  ended  for  the  best. 

For  hark  !  I  will  tell  j^ou  low  .  .  low  .  . 

I  am  black,  you  see — 
And  the  babe  who  lay  on  my  bosom  so, 

Was  far  too  white  .  .  too  white  for  me; 
As  white  as  the  ladies  who  scorned  to  pray 
Beside  me  at  church  but  yesterday. 

Though  my  tears  had  washed  a  place  for  my  knee 

My  own,  own  child !  I  could  not  bear 

To  look  in  its  face,  it  was  so  white. 
I  covered  him  up  with  a  kerchief  there ; 

I  covered  his  face  in  close  and  tight : 
And  he  moaned  and  struggled,  as  well  might  bo, 
For  the  white  child  wanted  his  liberty — 
Ha,  ha !  he  wanted  the  master-right. 


432  THE      RUNAWAY      SLAVE 

He  moaned  and  beat  with  his  head  and  feet, 

His  little  feet  that  never  grew — 
He  struck  them  out,  as  it  was  meet, 

Against  my  heart  to  break  it  through. 
I  might  have  sung  and  made  him  mild — • 
But  J  dared  not  sing  to  the  white-faced  child 

The  only  song  I  knew. 

I  pulled  the  kerchief  very  close: 

He  could  not  see  the  sun,  1  swear, 
More,  then,  alive,  tlian  now  he  does 

From  between  the  roots  of  the  mango  .  .  .  ^\heIe  ? 
.  .  I  know  where.     Close  I  a  child  and  mother 
Do  wrong  to  look  at  one  another, 

When  one  is  black  and  one  is  fair. 

Why,  in  that  single  glance  I  had 

Of  my  child's  face,  ...  I  tell  3'ou  all, 

I  saw  a  look  that  made  me  mad  ! 
The  master's  look,  that  used  to  fall 

On  my  soul  like  his  lash  .  .  or  worse ! — 

And  so,  to  save  it  from  my  curse, 
1  twisted  it  round  in  my  shawl. 

And  he  moaned  and  trembled  from  foot  to  head, 

He  shivered  from  head  to  foot ; 
Till,  after  a  time,  he  lay  instead 

Too  suddenl}'  still  and  mute. 
I  felt,  beside,  a  stiffening  cold 
I  dared  to  lift  up  just  a  fold.  .  . 

As  in  lifting  a  leaf  of  the  mango-fruit. 

But  my  fruit  .  .  .  ha,  ha,  !— there,  had  been 
(I  laugh  to  think  on't  at  this  hour  !) 

5rour  fine  white  angels  (who  have  seen 
^Nearest  the  secret  of  God's  power) 

And  plucked  my  fruit  to  make  them   wine, 

And  sucked  the  soul  of  that  child  of  mine, 

\s  the  humming-bird  sucks  the  soul  of  the  Howei 

Hit,  ha,  the  trick  of  the  angels  white  ! 

They  freed  tlie  white  child's  spirit  so. 
I  said  not  a  word,  but,  da^y  and  night, 

I  carried  the  bod}'^  to  and  fro. 
And  it  lay  on  my  heart  like  a  stone  .  .  as  chiii. 
—The  sun  ma^'  shine  out  as  much  as  he  will: 

I  am  cold,  though  it  happened  a  month  ago. 


AT    pilgrim's    point.  433 

From  the  white  man's  house,  and  the  black  man's  hiU 

I  carried  the  little  body  on. 
The  forest's  arms  did  round  us  shut, 

And  silence  through  the  trees  did  run. 
They  asked  no  question  as  I  went — 
They  stood  too  high  for  astonishment — 

The}'  could  see  God  sit  on  his  throne. 

My  little  bod}',  kerchiefed  fast, 

I  bore  it  on  through  the  forest  ...  on  ; 

And  when  I  felt  it  was  tired  at  last, 
I  scooped  a  hole  beneath  tlie  moon. 

Through  the  forest-tops  the  angels  far, 

With  a  white  sharp  finger  from  every  star, 
Did  point  and  mock  at  what  was  done. 

Yet  when  it  was  all  done  aright,  .  . 

Earth,  'twixt  me  and  my  baby,  strewed,  .  . 
All,  changed  to  black  earth,  .  .  nothing  white,  .  , 

A  dark  child  in  the  dark ! — ensued 
Some  comfort,  and  my  heart  grew  young. 
I  sat  down  smiling  there  and  sung 

The  song  I  learnt  in  my  maidenhood. 

And  thus  we  two  were  reconciled. 

The  white  child  and  black  mother,  thus ; 

For,  as  I  sang  it  soft  and  wild, 
The  same  song,  more  melodious. 

Rose  from  the  grave  whereon  I  sat, 

It  was  the  dead  child  singing  that. 
To  join  the  souls  of  both  of  us. 

I  look  on  the  sea  and  the  sky  1 

Where  the  pilgrims'  ships  first  anchored  lay 
The  free  sun  rideth  gloriously, 

But  the  pilgrim-ghosts  have  slid  away 
Through  the  earliest  streaks  of  the  morn. 
My  face  is  black,  but  it  glares  with  a  scorn 

Which  they  dare  not  meet  b}'  day. 

Ah  ! — in  ^hei'*  'stead,  their  hunter  sons  ! 

Ah,  ha !  they  are  on  me — they  hunt  in  a  ring — 
Keep  off!  I  brave  you  all  at  once — 

I  throw  off  your  ej'es  like  snakes  that  sting  I 
You  have  killed  the  black  eagle  at  nest,  I  think. 
Did  you    never  stand    still  in  your   triumph,  and 
shrink 
From  the  stroke  of  her  wounded  wing  ? 
37  2C 


434  THE     RUNAWAY      SLAVE. 

(Man,  drop  that  stone  yon  dared  to  lift  I — ) 
I  wish  you  who  stand  thei'e  five  a-breast, 

Each,  for  his  own  wife's  joy  and  gift, 
A  little  corpse  as  safely  at  rest 

As  mine  in  the  mangos  ! — Yes,  but  she 

May  keep  live  babies  on  her  knee, 
And  sing  the  song  she  likes  the  best. 

I  am  not  mad  :  I  am  black. 

I  see  you  staring  in  my  face — 
I  know  you  staring,  shrinking  back, 

Ye  are  born  of  the  Washington-race. 
And  this  land  is  the  frep  America. 
And  this  mark  on  my  wrist  .  .  (I  pi'ove  what  1  say) 

Ropes  tied  me  up  here  to  the  flogging-place. 

You  think  I  shrieked  then  ?     Not  a  sound  1 
I  hung,  as  a  gonrd  hangs  in  the  sun, 

I  only  cursed  them  all  around 
As  softly  as  I  might  have  done 

My  very  own  child. — From  these  sands 

Up  to  the  mountains,  lift  3'our  hands, 
0  slaves,  and  end  what  1  begun  ! 

Whips,  curses;  these  must  answer  those  1 

For  in  this  Union,  you  have  set 
Two  kinds  of  men  in  adverse  rows. 

Each  loathing  each  ;  and  all  forget 
The  seven  wounds  in  Christ's  bodj'  fair, 
While  He  sees  gaping  everywhere 

Our  countless  wounds  that  pay  no  debt. 

Our  wounds  are  different.     Your  white  men 

Are,  after  all,  not  gods  indeed. 
Nor  able  to  make  Christs  again 

Do  good  with  bleeding.      We  who  bleed 
(Stand  off!)  we  help  not  in  our  loss  ! 
We  are  too  heavy  for  our  cross, 

And  fall  and  crush  you  and  your  seed. 

I  fall,  I  swoon  !     I  look  at  the  sky. 

The  clouds  are  breaking  on  my  brain. 
I  am  floated  along,  as  if  1  should  die 

Of  liberty's  exquisite  pain. 
In  the  name  of  the  white  child  waiting  for  me 
In  the  death-dark  where  we  may  kiss  and  agree, 
White  men,  I  leave  you  all  curse-free 

In  raj  broken  heart's  disdain  I 


AN     AUGUST     VOICE. 


43£ 


AN   AUGUST  VOICE. 

"  Una  voce  augusta." — 

MOMTORE    TOSCANO. 

You'll  take  back  3'our  Grand  Duke  ? 

I  made  the  treaty  upon  it. 
Just  venture  a  quiet  rebuke  ; 

Dall'  Ougaro  Avrite  iiim  a  sonnet ; 
Ricasoli  gently  explain 

Some  need  of  the  constitution  : 
He'll  swear  to  it  over  again, 

Providing  an  "easy  solution." 
You'll  call  back  the  Grand  Duke, 

You'll  take  back  your  Grand  Duke  ? 

I  promised  the  Emperor  Francis 
To  argue  the  case  by  his  book, 

And  ask  you  to  meet  his  advances. 
The  Ducal  cause,  we  know, 

(Whether  3'ou  or  he  be  the  wronger) 
Has  very  strong  points  ; — although 

Your  baj'onets,  there,  have  stronger. 
You'll  call  back  the  Grand  Duke. 

You'll  take  back  j-our  Grand  Duke  ? 

He  is  not  pure  altogether. 
For  instance,  the  oath  which  he  took 

(In  the  Forty-eight  rough  weather) 
He'd  '•  nail  j'our  flag  to  his  mast," 

Then  softl}'  scuttled  the  boat  j-ou 
Hoped  to  escape  in  at  last, 

And  both  by  a  "  Pi-oprio  motu." 
You'll  call  back  the  Grand  Duke. 

You'll  take  back  your  Grand  Duke  ? 

The  scheme  meets  nothing  to  shock  it 
In  this  smart  letter,  look, 

We  found  in  Kadetsky's  pocket; 
Where  his  Highness  in  sprightly  st^de 

Of  the  flower  of  his  Tuscans  wrote, 
"  These  heads  be  the  hottest  in  file ; 

Pray  shoot  them  the  quickest."     Quote, 

And  call  back  the  Grand  Duke. 

You'll  take  back  j^our  Grand  Duke? 

There  are  some  things  to  object  to. 
He  cheated,  betrayed,  and  forsook, 

Then  called  in  the  foe  to  protect  you. 


430 


AN     AUGUST     VOICE. 

He  taxed  3-011  for  wines  antl  for  meats 
Throughout  that  eight  years'  pastime 

Of  Austria's  drum  in  your  streets — 
Of  course  you  remember  the  last  time 

You  called  back  your  Grand  Duke. 

You'll  take  back  the  Grand  Duke  ? 

It  is  not  race  he  is  poor  in, 
Although  he  nerer  could  brook 

The  patriot  cousin  at  Turin. 
His  love  of  kin  you  discern, 

By  his  hate  of  3'our  flag  and  me — 
So  decidedly  apt  to  turn 

All  colors  at  sight  of  the  Three.* 
You'll  call  back  the  Grand  Duke. 

You'll  take  back  your  Grand  Duke  ? 

'Twas  weak  that  he  fled  from  the  Pittir 
But  consider  how  little  he  shook 

At  thought  of  bombarding  your  city! 
And,  balancing  that  with  this, 

The  Christian  rule  is  plain  for  us  ; 
.  .  Or  the  Holy  Father's  Swiss 

Have  shot  his  Perugians  in  vain  for  us. 
You'll  call  back  the  Grand  Duke. 

Pray  take  back  3'our  Grand  Duke. 

— I,  too,  have  suffered  persuasion. 
All  Europe,  raven  and  rook, 

Screeched  at  me  armed  for  3-our  nation. 
Your  cause  in  m}'  heart  struck  spurs ; 

I  swept  such  warnings  aside  for  3-011 : 
M3'^  very  child's  e3'es,  and  Hers, 

Grew  like  m3-  brother's  who  died  for  3-00 
You'll  call  back  the  Grand  Duke  ? 

You'll  take  back  your  Grand  Duke  ? 

My  French  fought  nobl3'  with  reason — 
Left  many  a  Lombard3'  nook 

Red  as  with  wine  out  of  season. 
Little  we  grudged  what  was  done  there, 

Paid  freel3^  your  ransom  of  blood ; 
Our  heroes  stark  in  the  sun  there, 

We  would  not  recall  if  we  could. 
You'll  call  back  the  Grand  Duke  ? 

You'll  take  back  your  Grand  Duke  ? 
His  son  rode  fast  as  he  got  off 

•  The  Italian  Tricolor:  red,  green,  and  white. 
45* 


CHRISTMAS     GIFTS.  4 .}; 

That  day  on  the  enemy's  hook, 

When  /  had  an  c{)aulette  shot  off. 
Though  splashed  (as  1  saw  hiin  afar,  no 

Near)  ])y  those  ghastly  rains- 
The  mark,  wlieu  3on've  washed  him  in  Arno. 

Will  scarcely  be  larger  than  Cain's. 
You'll  call  back  the  Grand  Duke. 

You'll  take  back  your  Grand  Duke? 

'Twill  be  so  simple,  quite  beautiful: 
The  shepherd  recovers  his  crook, 

.  .  If  you  should  be  sheep,  and  dutiful 
I  spoke  a  word  worth  chalking 

On  Milan's  wall — but  stay, 
Here's  Poniatowsky  talking — 

You'll  listen  to  him  to-day, 
And  call  back' the  Grand  Duke. 

You'll  take  back  3'our  Grand  Duke  ? 

Observe,  there's  no  one  to  force  it — 
Unless  the  Madonna,  St.  Luke 

Drew  for  you,  choose  to  endorse  it. 
/  charge  3'ou  by  St.  Martino 

And  prodigies  quickened  by  wrong, 
Remember  your  Dead  on  Ticino  ; 

Be  worthy,  be  constant,  be  strong. 
— Bah  ! — call  back  the  Grand  Duke  ! ! 


CHRISTMAS  GIFTS. 

GllEttORY    NaNZIANZBH 

The  Pope  on  Christmas  day 

Sits  in  St.  Peter's  chair; 
But  the  peoples  murmur  and  say, 

"  Our  souls  are  sick  and  forlorn, 
And  who  will  show  us  where 

Is  the  stable  where  Christ  was  born  ?" 

The  star  is  lost  in  the  dark  ; 

The  manger  is  lost  in  the  straw ; 
The  Christ  cries  faintly  .  .  hark  I  .  . 

Through  bands  that  swaddle  and  strangle — 
But  the  Pope  in  the  chair  of  awe 

Looks  down  the  great  quadrangle. 


438  CHRISTMAS     GIFTS. 

The  magi  kneel  at  bis  foot, 

Kings  of  the  east  and  west, 
But,  instead  of  the  angels,  (mute 

Is  the  "  Peace  on  earth  "  of  their  song,) 
The  peoples,  perplexed  and  opprest, 

Are  sigliing,  "  How  long,  how  long?" 

A.nd,  instead  of  the  kine,  bewilder  m 

Shadow  of  aisle  and  dome, 
The  bear  who  tore  up  the  children, 

The  fox  who  burnt  up  the  corn, 
And  the  wolf  who  suckled  at  Rome 

Brothers  to  slay  and  to  scorn. 

Cardinals  left  and  right  of  him, 
Worshippers  round  and  beneath. 

The  silver  trumpets  at  sight  of  him 
Thrill  with  a  musical  blast: 

But  the  people  say  through  their  teeth, 
"  Trumpets  ?  we  wait  for  the  Last  1" 

He  sits  in  the  place  of  the  Lord, 
And  asks  for  the  jjifts  of  the  time  ; 

Gold,  for  the  haft  of  a  sword. 
To  win  back  Komagna  averse, 

Incense,  to  sweeten  a  crime, 

And  myrrh,  to  embitter  a  curse. 

Then  a  king  of  the  west  said,  "  Good  ! — 
I  bring  thee  the  gifts  of  the  time  ; 

Red,  for  the  patriot's  blood. 
Green,  for  the  martyr's  crown, 

White,  for  the  dew  and  the  rime, 

When  the  morning  of  God  comes  down  '' 

— 0  m3'stie  tricolor  bright  i 

The  Pope's  heart  quailed  like  a  man's: 
The  cardinals  froze  a*"    t\e  sight. 

Bowing  their  tonsurvs  hoary: 
And  the  eyes  in  the  peacock-fans 

Winked  at  the  alien  glory. 

But  the  peoples  exclaimed  in  hope, 
"  Now  blessed  be  he  who  has  brought 

These  gifts  of  the  time  to  the  Pope, 
When  our  souls  were  sick  and  forlorn. 

— And  here  is  the  star  we  sought, 
To  show  us  where  Christ  was  born  1 


**i>ied"  istn 

"DIED  ...» 

(The  "  Times"  Obituary.) 

What  shall  we  add  now  ?     He  is  dead. 

And  I  who  praise  and  you  who  blame, 

With  wash  of  words  across  his  name, 
Find  suddenly  declared  instead — 
"  On  Sunday,  third  of  August,  dead  !" 

Which  stops  the  whole  we  talked  to-day. 

I,  quickened  to  a  plausive  glance 

At  his  large  general  tolerance 
By  common  people's  narrow  way, 
Stopped  short  in  praising.     Dead,  they  saj^ 

And  you,  who  had  just  put  in  a  sort 

Of  cold  deduction — "  rather,  large 

Through  weakness  of  the  continent  marge, 

Than  greatness  of  the  thing  contained" * 

Broke  off.     Dead  .'—there,  you  stood  restrained. 
As  if  we  had  talked  in  following  one 

Up  some  long  gallery.     "  Would  you  choose 

An  air  like  that  ?     The  gait  is  loose — 
Or  noble."     Sudden  in  the  sun 
An  oubliette  winks.     Where  is  he  ?     Gout. 

Dead.     Man's  "  I  was  "  by  God's  "  I  am  "— 

All  hero-worship  comes  to  that. 

High  heart,  high  thought,  high  fame,  as  flat 
As  a  gravestone.     Bring  your  Jacet  jam — 
The  epitaph's  an  epigram. 

Dead.     There's  an  answer  to  arrest 

All  carping.     Dust's  his  natural  place  ? 

He'll  let  the  flies  buzz  round  his  face 
And,  though  you  slander,  not  protest 
■ — From  such  an  one,  exact  the  Best  ? 
Opinions  gold  or  brass  are  null. 

We  chuck  our  flattery  or  abuse. 

Called  Cgssar's  due,  as  Charon's  dues, 
I'  the  teeth  of  some  dead  sage  or  fool. 
To  mend  the  grinning  of  a  skull. 
Be  abstinent  in  praise  and  blame. 

The  man's  still  mortal,  who  stands  firsts 

And  mortal  onlj',  if  last  and  worst. 
Then  slowly  lift  so  frail  a  fame. 
Or  softly  drop  so  poor  a  shame. 


POEMS 


KLIZABETII  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


VOLUME    SECOND. 


UNI  Vj,;,.sj.|.v    ,,,., 

f  "^'  IFOUMA. 


THE    KliXGVS    GIFT. 


Teresa,  ah,  Teresita ! 
Now  what  has  the  messenger  brought  her. 
Our  Garibaldi's  30ung  daughter, 

To  make  her  stop  short  in  her  singing? 
Will  she  not  once  more  repeat  a 
Terse  from  that  hymn  of  our  hero's, 

Setting  the  souls  of  us  ringing? 
Break  off  the  song  where  the  tear  rose  ? 
Ah,  Teresita ! 

A  young  thing,  mark,  is  Teresa  : 
Her  eyes  have  caught  fire,  to  be  sure,  in 
That  necklace  of  jewels  from  Turin,  . 

Till  blind  their  regard  to  us  men  is. 
But  still  she  remembers  to  raise  a 
Sly  look  to  her  father,  and  nr':e — 

"  Could  she  sing  on  as  well  about  Venice, 
Yet  wear  such  a  flame  at  her  throat? 
Decide  for  Teresa." 

Teresa  I   ah,  Teresita! 
His  right  hand  has  paused  on  her  head — 
"  Accept  it,  my  daughter,"  he  said  ; 

"  Ay,  wear  it,  true  child  of  thy  mother  ! 
Then  sing,  till  all  start  to  their  feet, 
New  verse  ever  bolder  and  freer ! 

King  Victor's  no  king  like  another, 
But  verily  noble  as  we  are, 
Cliild,  Teresita  1" 


THE     DEAD     PAN. 


THE  DEAD  PAN. 

Excited  by  Schiller's  "  Gotter  Griechenlaiids,"  and  panly 
founded  on  a  well-known  tradition  mentioned  in  a  treatise  of 
Plutarch  ("De  Oraculorum  Defactu"),  according  to  which  at  the 
hour  of  the  Saviour's  agony,  a  cry  of  "  Great  Pan  is  dead  1"  swept 
across  the  waves  in  the  hearing  of  certain  mariners — and  the 
oracles  ceased. 

It  is  in  all  veneration  to  the  memory  of  the  deathless  Schiller, 
that  I  oppose  a  doctrine  still  more  dishonoring  to  poetry  than  to 
Christianity. 

As  Mr.  Kenyon's  graceful  and  harmonious  paraphrase  of  the 
German  poem  was  the  first  occasion  of  the  turning  cf  my  thoughts 
in  this  direction,  I  take  advantage  of  the  pretence  to  indulge  my 
feelings  (which  overflow  on  other  grounds)  by  inscribing  my  lyric 
to  that  dear  friend  and  relative,  with  the  earnestness  of  appre- 
ciating esteem  as  well  as  of  affectionate  gratitude. — 1844. 

Gods  of  Hellas,  gods  of  Ilellas, 
Can  ye  listen  in  your  silence  ? 
Can  your  m\'stic  voices  tell  us 
"Where  ye  hide  ?     In  floating  islands, 
With  a  wind  that  evermore 
Keeps  3'ou  out  of  sight  of  shore  ? 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

In  what  revels  are  3-e  sunken, 

In  old  Ethiopia  ? 

Have  the  Pygmies  made  you  drunken, 

Bathing  in  mandragora 

Your  divine  pale  lips,  that  shiver 

Like  the  lotus  in  the  river  ? 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

Do  ye  sit  there  still  in  slumber. 
In  gigantic  Alpine  rows  ? 
The  black  poppies  out  of  number 
Nodding,  dripping  from  your  brows 
To  the  red  lees  of  your  wine, 
And  so  kept  alive  and  fine  ? 

Pan,  Pan  is  deau 

Or  lie  crushed  your  stagnant  corses 
Where  the  silver  spheres  roll  on, 
Stung  to  life  by  centric  forces 
Thrown  like  rays  out  from  the  sun  ? — 
While  the  smoke  of  ^our  old  altars 
Is  the  shroud  that  round  you  welters  ? 

Great  Pan  is  Dead. 


THE      DEAD     PAN. 

"  Gods  of  ncllas,  gods  of  Hellas," 
Said  the  old  Hellenic  tongue ! 
Said  the  nero-oaths,  as  well  as 
Poets'  songs  the  sweetest  snngl 
Have  ye  grown  deaf  in  a  day  ? 
Can  ye  sjDeak  not  ^ea  or  nay — 

Since  Pan  is  Head  ? 

Ho  ye  leave  your  rivers  flowing 

All  alone,  0  Xaides, 

While  your  drenched  locks  dry  slow  in 

This  cold  feeble  sun  and  breeze  ? 

Not  a  word  the  Naiads  say, 

Though  the  rivers  run  for  aye. 

For  Pan  is  dead. 

From  the  gloaming  of  the  oak-wood, 
0  3'e  Hryads,  could  ye  flee  ? 
At  the  rushing  thunderstroke,  would 
No  sob  tremble  through  the  tree  ? — 
Not  a  word  the  Dryacfs  say. 
Though  the  forests  wave  for  aye. 

For  Pan  is  deacL 

Have  ye  left  the  mountain  places, 
Oreads  wild,  for  other  tryst  ? 
Shall  we  see  no  sudden  faces 
Strike  a  glory  through  the  mist  ? 
Not  a  sound  the  silence  thrills 
Of  the-everlasting  hills. 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 
O  twelve  gods  of  Plato's  vision. 
Crowned  to  starry  wanderings — 
With  your  chariots  in  possession, 
And  3'our  silver  clash  of  wings  ! 
Yer}'  pale  ye  seem  to  rise. 
Ghosts  of  Grecian  deities — 

Now  Pan  is  dead  I 
Jove,  that  right  hand  is  unloaded. 
Whence  the  thunder  did  prevail,    . 
While  in  idiocy  of  godhead 
Thou  art  staring  the  stars  pale  1 
And  thine  eagle,  blind  and  old, 
Houghs  his  feathers  in  the  cold. 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead 
Where,  0  Juno,  is  the  glory 
Of  thy  regal  look  and  tread! 


THE     DEAD     PAN. 

Will  thej-  Iny,  for  evermore,  thee, 
On  thy  dim,  straight,  golden  bed  ? 
Will  til}-  queendora  all  lie  hid 
Meekly  under  either  lid  ? 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

Ha,  Apollo  !  floats  his  golden 
Hair  all  mist-like  where  he  stands, 
While  the  Muses  hang  enfolding 
Knee  and  foot  with  faint  wild  hands  ? 
'Neath  the  clanging  of  thy  bow, 
Niobe  looked  lost  as  thou  ! 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

Shall  the  casque  with  its  brown  iron. 
Pallas'  broad,  blue  e_yes  eclipse, 
And  no  hero  take  inspiring 
From  the  god-Greek  of  her  lips  ? 
Neath  her  olive  dost  thou  sit. 
Mars  the  mighty,  cursing  it  ? 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

Bacchus,  Bacchus  !  on  the  panther 
He  swoons — bound  with  his  own  vines. 
And  his  Maenads  slowly  saunter, 
Head  aside,  among  the  pines, 
While  the}'  murmur  dreaniingly, 
"  Evohe — ah — evohe —  !  " 

Ah,  Pan  is  dead ! 

Neptune  lies  beside  the  trident, 
Dull  and  senseless  as  a  stone ; 
And  old  Pluto  deaf  and  silent 
Is  cast  out  into  the  sun. 
Ceres  smileth  stern  thereat, 
"  We  all  now  are  desolate — 

Now  Pan  is  dead.'' 
Aphrodite  1  dead  and  driven 
As  thy  native  foam,  thou  art ; 
With  the  cestus  long  done  heaving 
On  the  white  calm  of  thine  heart ! 
Ai  Adonis  !  at  that  shriek, 
Not  a  tear  runs  down  her  cheek — 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 
And  the  Loves,  we  used  to  know  from 
One  another,  huddled  lie, 
Frore  as  taken  in  a  snow-storm, 
Close  beside  her  tenderly — 
37* 


THE     DEAD     PAN. 

As  if  each  had  weakly  tried 
Once  to  liiss  her  as  he  died. 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 
What,  and  Ilennes  ?     Time  enthralleth 
All  thy  cunning,  Ilermes,  thus — 
And  tbe  iv}'  blindly  crawleth 
Round  thy  brave  caduceus  ? 
Hast  thou  no  new  message  for  us, 
Full  of  thunder  and  Jove-glories  ? 

Nay,  Pan  is  dead. 
Crownfed  Cybele's  great  turret 
Rocks  and  crumbles  on  her  head. 
Roar  the  lions  of  her  chariot 
Toward  the  wilderness,  unfed. 
Scornful  children  are  not  mute — 
"  Mother,  mother,  walk  a-foot — 

Since  Pan  is  dead." 
Jn  the  fiery-hearted  centre 
3f  the  solemn  universe. 
Ancient  Vesta — who  could  enter 
To  consume  thee  with  this  curse? 
Drop  thy  grey  chin  on  thy  knee, 
0  thou  palsied  Mysterj' ! 

For  Pan  is  dead, 
Gods,  we  vainly  do  adjure  3'ou — 
Ye  return  nor  voice  nor  sign  ! 
Kot  a  votarj'  could  secure  you 
Even  a  grave  for  j'onr  Divine  1 
Not  a  grave,  to  show  thereby. 
Here  these  grey  old  gods  do  lie. 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 
Even  that  Greece  who  took  j^our  wages, 
Calls  the  obolus  outworn. 
And  the  hoarse  deep-throated  ages 
Laugh  your  godships  unto  scorn. 
And  the  poets  do  disclaim  you 
Or  grow  colder  if  they  name  3^ou — 

And  Pan  is  dead. 
Gods  bereaved,  gods  belated. 
With  your  purples  rent  asunder  ! 
Gods  discrowaed  and  desecrated, 
Disinherited  of  thunder  I 
Now,  the  goats  may  climb  and  crop 
The  soft  grass  on  Ida's  top — 

Now,  Pan  is  dead. 


THE     DEAD     PAN. 

Calm,  of  old,  the  bark  went  onward, 
When  a  cry  more  loud  than  wind. 
Rose  up,  deepened,  and  swept  sunward, 
From  the  piled  Dark  behind  ; 
And  the  sun  shrank  and  grew  pale. 
Breathed  against  b}^  the  great  wail — 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

And  the  rowers  from  the  benches 
Fell — each  shuddering  on  his  face — 
While  dejjarting  Influences 
Struck  a  cold  back  through  the  place  ; 
And  the  shadow  of  the  ship 
Reeled  along  the  passive  deep — 

"  Pan,  Pan  is  dead." 

And  that  dismal  cry  rose  slowly 
And  sank  slowly  through  the  air. 
Full  of  spirit's  melancholy 
And  eternity's  despair  I 
And  they  heard  the  words  it  said — 
Pan  is  dead — Great  Pan  is  dead — 
Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

'Twas  the  hour  when  One  in  Sion 
Hung  for  love's  sake  on  a  cross  ; 
When  His  brow  was  chill  with  dying, 
And  His  soul  was  faint  with  loss  ; 
When  His  priestly  blood  dropped  downward; 
And  His  kingly  eyes  looked  throneward — 
Then,  Pan  was  dead. 

By  the  love  He  stood  alone  in, 
His  sole  Godhead  rose  complete, 
And  the  false  gods  fell  down  moaning, 
Each  from  off  his  golden  seat ; 
All  the  false  gods  with  a  cry 
Rendered  up  their  deity — 

Pan,  Pan  was  dead. 
Wailing  wide  across  the  islands, 
They  rent,  vest-like,  their  Divine  1 
And  a  darkness  and  a  silence 
Quenched  the  light  of  every  shrine  ; 
And  Dodona's  oak.  swang  lonelj'^. 
Henceforth,  to  the  tempest  only, 

Pan,  Pan  was  dead. 
Pythia  staggered — feeling  o'er  her, 
Her  lost  god's  forsaking  look. 


4       ffl  f  (.'^l  1 


EOMASCE  OF  THE  SWAN'S  NEST. 


THE     DEAD     PAN.  1] 

Slraitrht  her  eyeballs  filmed  with  horror, 
And  her  crisp}^  fillets  shook, 
And  her  lips  gasped  tliroiigh  their  foam, 
For  a  word  that  did  not  come. 

Pan,  Pan  "was  dead. 

O  3'e  vain  false  gods  of  Hellas, 
Ye  are  silent  evermore  I 
And  I  dash  down  this  old  chalice, 
Whence  libations  ran  of  _yore. 
See,  the  wine  crawls  in  the  dust 
Wormlike — as  your  glories  must. 

Since  Pan  is  dead. 

Get  to  dust,  as  common  mortals, 
B3'  a  common  doom  and  track  ! 
Let  no  Schiller  from  the  portals 
Of  that  Hades,  call  you  back, 
Or  instruct  us  to  weep  all 
At  your  antique  funeral. 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

By  3'our  beauty,  which  confesses 

Some  chief  Beauty  conquering  you — 

By  our  grand  heroic  guesses. 

Through  3'our  falsehood,  at  the  True — 

We  will  weep  not  .  .  .  !  earth  shall  roll       ■     • 

Heir  to  each  god's  aureole — 

And  Pan  is  dead. 

Earth  outgrows  the  mythic  fancies 
Sung  beside  her  in  her  youth  ; 
And  those  debonaire  romances 
Sound  but  dull  beside  the  truth. 
Phoebus'  chariot-course  is  run. 
Look  up,  poets,  to  the  sun  1 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 
Christ  hath  sent  us  down  the  angels ; 
And  the  whole  earth  and  the  skies 
Are  illumed  by  altar-candles 
Lit  for  blessed  mysteries  ; 
And  a  Priest's  hand,  through  creation, 
Waveth  calm  and  consecration — 

And  Pan  is  dead. 
Truth  is  fair :  should  we  forego  it  ? 
Can  we  sigh  right  for  a  wrong  ? 
God  himself  is  the  best  Poet, 
And  the  Real  is  his  sono^. 


12  A    child's    gravb. 

Sing  liis  truth  out  fair  and  full, 
And  secure  his  beautiful. 

Let  Pan  be  dead. 

Truth  is  large.     Our  aspiration 
Scarce  embraces  half  we  be. 
Shame,  to  stand  in  His  creation, 
And  doubt  truth's  sufficiency  ! — 
To  think  God's  song  uuexcelling 
The  poor  tales  of  our  own  telling — 

When  Pan  is  dead. 

What  is  true  and  just  and  honest, 
What  is  lovely,  what  is  pure — 
All  of  praise  that  hath  admonisht, 
All  of  virtue,  shall  endure — 
These  are  themes  for  poets'  uses. 
Stirring  nobler  than  the  Muses, 

Ere  Pan  was  dead. 

0  brave  poets,  keep  back  nothing, 
Nor  mix  falsehood  with  tlie  whole. 
Look  up  Godward;  speak  the  truth  in 
Worthy  song  from  earnest  soul ! 
Hold,  in  high  poetic  duty. 
Truest  Truth  the  fairest  Beauty. 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 


A  CHILD'S  GRAVE  AT  FLORENCE 

A.  A.  E  C. 
Born,  July,  1848.     Died,  November,  1849. 

Of  English  blood,  of  Tuscan  birth. 
What  country  should  we  give  her? 

Instead  of  any  on  the  earth. 
The  civic  Heavens  receive  her. 

And  here,  among  the  English  tombs, 
In  Tuscan  ground  we  lay  her. 

While  the  blue  Tuscan  sky  endomes 
Our  English  words  of  praj^er. 

A  little  child  ! — how  long  she  lived, 
By  months,  not  years,  is  reckoned : 

Born"  in  one  July,  she  survived 
Alone  to  see  a  second. 


A     child's     GRAVIS  13 

Briirht  featured,  as  the  July  sun 

Iter  little  face  still  played  in, 
And  splendors,  with  her  birth  begun, 

Had  had  no  time  for  fading. 
So,  Lily,  from  those  July  hours, 

iS^o  wonder  we  should  call  her; 
She  looked  such  kingship  to  the  flowers. 

AVas  but  a  little  taller. 
A  Tuscan  Lily — only  white. 

As  Danle,  in  abhorrence 
Of  red  corruption,  wished  aright 

The  lilies  of  his  Florence. 
We  could  not  wish  her  Avhiter — her 

Who  perfumed  with  pure  blossom 
The  house  ! — a  lovely  thing  to  wear 

Upon  a  mother's  bosom  ! 
This  July  creature  thought  perhaps 

Our  speech  not  worth  assuming  ; 
She  sat  upon  her  parents'  laps, 

And  mimicked  the  gnat's  humming: 
Said  "  father,"  "  mother"— then,  left  off, 

For  tongues  celestial,  fitter. 
Her  hair  had  grown  just  long  enough 

To  catch  heaven's  jasper-glitter. 
Babes  I  Love  could  always  hear  and  see 

Behind  the  cloud  that  hid  them. 
"  Let  little  children  come  to  me. 

And  do  not  thou  forbid  them." 
So,  unforbidding,  have  we  met, 

And  gently  here  have  laid  her, 
Though  winter  is  no  time  to  get 

The  flowers  that  should  o'er-spread  her. 
We  should  bring  pansies  quick  with  spring 

Rose,  violet,  datfodilly, 
And  also,  above  everything. 

White  lilies  for  our  Lily. 
Nay,  more  than  flowers,  this  grave  exacts— 

Glad,  grateful  attestations 
Of  her  sweet  eyes  and  pretty  acts, 

With  calm  renunciations. 
Her  very  mother  with  light  feet 

Should  leave  the  place  too  earthy. 
Saying,  "  The  angels  have  thee,  Sweet, 
Because  we  are  not  worthy." 


14  AT     FLORENCE. 

But  winter  kills  the  orange  buds, 

The  gardens  in  the  frost  are, 
And  all  the  heart  dissolves  in  floods, 

Remembering  we  have   lost  her ! 
Poor  earth,  poor  heart — too  weak,  too  weak, 

To  miss  the  July  shining! 
Poor  heart ! — what  bitter  words  we  speak, 

When  God  speaks  of  resigning! 
Sustain  tliis  lieart  in  us  that  I'aiiits, 

Thou  God,  the  self-existent ! 
We  catch  np  wild  at  parting  saints, 

And  feel  th}^  Heaven  too  distant. 
The  wind  that  swept  them  out  of  sin, 

Has  ruffled  all  our  vesture. 
On  the  shut  door  that  let  them  in. 

We  beat  with  frantic  gesture — 
To  us^  us  also — open  straiglit ! 

The  outer  life  is  chilly — 
Are  ive  too,  like  the  earth,  to  wait 

Till  next  year  for  our  Lily  ? 
— Oh,  my  own  baby  on  my  knees, 

My  leaping,  dimpled  treasure, 
At  every  word  I  write  like  these. 

Clasped  close,  with  stronger  pressure  1 
Too  well  my  own  heart  understands — 

At  every  word  lieats  fuller — 
M3'  little  feet,  my  little  hands, 

And  hair  of  Lily's  color  ! 
— But  God  gives  patience,  Love  learns  strengti 

And  Faith  remembers  promise. 
And  Hope  itself  can  smile  at  length 

On  other  hopes  gone  from  us. 
Love,  strong  as  Death,  shall  conquer  Death. 

Through  struggle,  made  more  gloriou3. 
This  mother  stills  her  sobbing  breath. 

Renouncing,  yet  victorious. 
Arms,  empty  of  her  child,  she  lifts. 

With  spirit  unboreaven — 
"  God  will  not  all  take  back  bis  gifts  ] 

My  Lily's  mine  in  heaven ! 
"  Still  mine  !  maternal  rights  serene 

Not  given  to  another  ! 
The  crystal  bars  shine  faint  between 

The  souls  of  child  and  mother. 


CATARINA      TO      CAMOENS.  13 

"Meanwhile,"  the  mother  cries,    'content! 

Our  love  was  well  divided. 
Its  sweetness  (bllowing  where  slie  went, 

Its  anguish  stayed  where  I  did. 

"Well  done  of  God,  to  halve  the  lot. 

And  give  her  all  the  sweetness  ; 
To  us,  the  enipt^f  room  and  cot — 

To  her,  the  Heaven's  completeness. 

"To  us,  this  grave — to  lier,  the  rows 

The  mj-stic  jiahn-trees  spring  in. 
To  us,  the  silence  in  the  house  — 

To  her,  the  choral  singing. 

"For  her,  to  gladden  in  God's  view — 

For  us,  to  hope  and  bear  on  ! — 
Grow,  Lily,  in  tliy  garden  new, 

Beside  the  rose  of  Sharon. 

"Grow  fast  in  Heaven,  sweet  Lily  clip[)ed, 

la  love  more  calm  than  this  is. 
And  ina^^  the  angels  dewA'-lipped 

Kemind  thee  of  our  kisses  ! 

"  While  none  shall  tell  thee  of  our  tears, 

These  human  tears  now  falling, 
Till,  after  a  few  patient  years, 

One  home  shall  take  us  all  in. 

"Child,  father,  mother — who,  left  out? 

Not  mother,  and  not  father! — 
And  when,  our  dyinji-  couch  about. 

The  natural  mists  shall  gather, 

**  Some  smiling  angel  close  sliall  stand 

In  old  Correggio's  fashion, 
And  bear  a  Lily  in  his  hand. 

For  death's  annunciation  ' 


CATARINA  TO  CAMOENS; 

•  riXG    IN    HIS    ABSENCE    ABROAD,    AND    REFERRING    TO    THE     POIIM    IS 
WHICH  HE  RECORDED  THE  SWEETNESS  OP  HER  EYKS. 

On  the  door  you  will  not  enter. 

I  have  gazed  too  long — adieu  1 
Hope  withdraws  her  peradventure 

Death  is  near  me — and  not  you. 


\(^  OATARINA     TO     CAM0EN8. 

Come,  0  lover, 

Close  and  cover 
These  poor  eyes,  j'ou  called,  I  ween, 
"  Sweetest  e3*es,  were  ever  seen." 

When  I  heard  you  sing  that  burden 

In  ray  vernal  days  and  bowers, 
Other  praises  disregarding, 

I  but  hearkened  that  of  yours — 
Only  saying 
In  heart-playing, 
"  Blessed  eyes  mine  eyes  have  been. 
If  the  sweetest,  his  have  seen  !" 

But  all  changes.     At  this  vesper, 

Cold  the  sun  shines  down  the  door 
If  you  stood  there,  would  you  whisper 
"  Love,  I  love  you,"  as  before — 
Di-ath  pervading 
Now  and  shading 
Eyes  you  sang  of,  that  yestreen. 
As  the  sweetest  ever  seen? 
Yes,  I  think,  were  j'ou  beside  them, 

Near  the  bed  I  die  upon — 
Though  their  beauty  you  denied  thera, 
As'^'ou  stood  there,  looking  down, 
You  would  trul^' 
Call  them  duly. 
For  the  love's  sake  found  therein — 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen." 

And  if  you  looked  down  upon  them, 

And  if  they  looked  up  to  you, 
And  the  light  which  has  foregone  them 
Would  be  gathered  back  anew : 
They  would  truly 
Be  as  duly 
Love-transformed  to  beauty's  sheen^ 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen." 

But,  ah  me !  you  only  see  me, 

In  your  thoughts  of  loving  man. 
Smiling  soft  perhaps  and  dreamy 
Through  the  wavings  of  my  fan — 
And  unweeting 
Go  repeating, 
In  your  reverie  serene, 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen." 


OATARINA      TO      CAMOENS.  17 

While  my  sj)irit  leans  and  reaches 

From  my  body  still  and  pale, 
Fain  to  hear  what  tender  speech  is 

In  your  love  to  help  my  bale — 

0  ni}^  poet, 
Come  and  show  it  I 

Come,  of  latest  love,  to  glean 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen." 

O  my  poet,  0  my  prophet, 

When  you  praised  their  sweetness  80» 
Pid  you  think,  in  singing  of  it. 
That  it  might  be  near  to  go  ? 
Had  you  fancies 
From  their  glances. 
That  the  grave  would  quickly'-  screen 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen." 

No  reply  !  the  fountains  warble 

In  the  court-yard  sounds  alone. 
As  the  water  to  the  marble 
So  my  heart  falls  with  a  moan 
From  love-sighing 
To  this  d^'ing. 
Death  forerunneth  Love  to  win 
"  Sweetest  ej-es,  were  ever  seen." 

Will  you  come  ?     When  I'm  departed 

Where  all  sweetnesses  are  hid ; 
Where  th3'  voice,  my  tender-hearted, 
Will  not  lift  up  either  lid. 
Cr^',  O  lover. 
Love  is  over  ! 
Cry  beneath  the  cypress  green — 
"  Sweetest  e^'es,  were  ever  seen." 

When  the  angelus  is  ringino^, 

Near  the  consent  will  you  walk. 
And  recall  the  choral  singing 

Which  brought  angels  down  our  t&lkf 
Spirit-shriven 

1  viewed  HeaTcn, 

Till  you  smiled — "  Is  earth  unclean, 
Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen  ?  " 

When  beneath  the  palace-lattice, 

You  ride  slow  as  you  have  done, 
And  you  see  a  face  there — that  is 

Not  the  old  familiar  one — 


OATARINA     TO     CAMOENB. 

Will  you  oftly 
Murmur  softly, 
"  Here,  ye  watched  me  morn  and  e'en, 
Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen  !  ■' 
"When  the  palace-ladies,  sitting 

Round  your  gittern,  shall  have  said, 
"  Poet  sing  those  verses  written 
For  the  lady  who  is  dead," 
Will  you  tremble. 
Yet  dissemble — 
Or  sing  hoarse,  with  tears  between, 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen  ?  " 
"  Sweetest  eyes  !  "  how  sweet  in  flowings, 

The  repeated  cadence  is  1 
Though  you  sang  a  hundred  poems. 
Still  the  best  one  would  be  this. 
I  can  hear  it 
'Twixt  my  spirit 
And  the  earth-noise  intervene — 
"  Sweetest  e3'es,  were  ever  seen  !  " 
But  the  priest  waits  for  the  praj'ing, 
And  the  choir  are  on  their  knees. 
And  the  soul  must  pass  away  in 

Strains  more  solemn  high  than  these. 
Miserere 
For  the  wear}'  ! 
Oh,  no  longer  for  Catrine, 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen !  " 
Keep  my  riband,  take  and  keep  it, 
(I  have  loosed  it  from  my  hair)* 
Feeling,  while  you  over  weep  it. 
Not  alone  in  your  despair, 
Since  with  saintly 
Watch  unfaintly 
Oat  of  heaven  shall  o'er  you  lean 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  wei"e  ever  seen," 
But — but  now — y^t  unremoved 

Up  to  Heaven,  the}^  glisten  fast. 
You  ma}'  cast  awa}-  Beloved 
In  3'our  future  all  m}'  past. 
Such  old  phrases 
May  be  praises 
For  some  fairer  bosom-queen — 
"  Sweetest  ej^es,  were  ever  seen  I " 

♦  She  left  him  the  riband  from  her  hair. 


A      DENIAL  I'J 

E^'cs  of  mine,  what  are  ye  doing  ? 

Faithless,  faithless — praised  amisa 
If  a  tear  be  of  your  showing,    , 
Dropt  for  any  hope  of  Hisl 
Death  has  boldness 
Besides  coldness, 
If  unwortli}^  tears  demean 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen." 

I  will  look  out  to  his  future ; 

I  will  bless  it  till  it  shine. 
Should  he  ever  be  a  suitor 
Unto  sweeter  e^'cs  than  mine, 
Sunshine  gild  them. 
Angels  shield  them, 
Whatsoever  eyes  terrene 
Be  the  sweetest  his  have  seen  I 


LIFE  AND  LOYE. 

Fast  this  Life  of  mine  was  dying. 
Blind  already  and  calm  as  death. 

Suowflakes  on  her  bosom  lying 
Scarcely  heaving  with  her  breath. 

Love  came  by,  and  having  known  her 

In  a  dream  of  fabled  lauds, 
Gently  stooped,  and  laid  upon  her 

Mystic  chrism  of  holy  hands  ; 

Drew  his  smile  across  her  folded 
Ej'elids,  as  the  swallow  dips  ; 

Breathed  as  finely  as  the  cold  did, 
Through  the  locking  of  her  lips. 

So,  when  Life  looked  upward,  being 
"Warmed  and  breathed  on  from  above, 

What  sight  could  she  have  for  seeing, 
Evermore  .  .  .  but  only  Love  ? 


A  DENIAL. 

We  have  met  late — it  is  too  late  to  meet, 

0  friend,  not  more  than  friend  ! 
Death's  forecome  shroud  is  tangled  round  my  feet, 
A.nd  if  I  step  or  stir,  I  toucli  the  end. 


20  A     DENIAL. 

In  this  last  jeopard  j 
Can  I  approach  thee,  1,  who  cannot  move? 
How  shall  I  answer  th3'  request  for  love? 

Look  in  my  face  and  see. 

I  love  thee  not,  I  dare  not  love  thee !  go 

In  silence  ;  drop  my  hand. 
If  thou  seek  roses,  seek  tiiem  where  they  blow 
In  garden-alleys,  not  in  desert-sand. 

Can  life  and  death  agree. 
That  thou  shouldst  stoop  thy  song  to  my  complaint  ? 
I  cannot  love  thee.     If  the  world  is  faint, 

Look  in  my  face  and  see. 

I  might  have  loved  thee  in  some  former  days. 

Oh,  then,  my  spirits  had  leapt 
As  now  they  sink,  at  hearing  thy  love-praise. 
Before  tliese  faded  cheeks  were  overwept, 

Had  this  been  asked  of  me, 
To  love  thee  with  my  whole  strong  heart  and  head — 
I  sliould  have  said  still  .  .  .  yes,  but  smiled  and  said, 

"  Look  in  my  face  and  see  1" 

But  now  .  .  God  sees  me,  God,  who  took  my  heart 

And  drowned  it  in  life's  surge. 
In  all  your  wide  warm  earth  I  have  no  part — 
A  light  song  overcomes  me  like  a  dirge. 

Could'  Love's  great  harmony 
The  saints  keep  step  to  when  their  bonds  are  loose, 
Not  weigh  me  down  ?  am  /  a  wife  to  choose  ? 

Look  in  my  face  and  see. 

While  I  behold,  as  plain  as  one  who  dreams. 

Some  woman  of  full  worth, 
Whose  v^oice,  as  cadenced  as  a  siYver  stream's, 
Shall  prove  the  fountain-soul  which  sends  it  forth ; 

One  younger,  more  thought-free 
And  fair  and  ga3'^,  than  I,  thou  must  forget, 
With  brighter  eyes  than  these  .  .  which  are  not  wet 

Look  in  my  face  and  see ! 

So  farewell  thou,  whom  I  have  known  too  late 

To  let  thee  come  so  near. 
Be  counted  happy  while  men  call  thee  gi'eat, 
And  one  beloved  woman  feels  thee  dear  1 — 

Not  I ! — that  cannot  be. 
I  am  lost,  I  am  changed — I  must  go  farther,  where 
The  change  shall  take  me  worse,  and  no  one  dare 

Look  in  my  face  to  see. 


PROOF     AND     DISPROOF.  I 

Meantime  I  bless  thee.     By  these  thoughts  of  mine 

I  bless  thee  from  all  such  I 
I  bless  thy  lamp  to  oil,  tli}'  cup  to  wine, 
Thy  hearth  to  joy,  thy  hand. to  an  equal  touch 

Of  loyal  troth.     For  me, 
I  loA'e  thee  not!  I  love  thee  not! — away! 
Here's  no  more  courage  in  my  soul  to  say 

"  Look  in  my  face  and  see." 


PROOF  AND  DISPROOF. 

Dost  thou  love  me,  m^'  beloved  ? 

Who  shall  answer  yes  or  no? 
What  is  proved  or  disproved 

When  my  soul  enquii-eth  so, 
Dost  thou  love  me,  my  beloved  ? 

I  have  seen  thy  heart  to-day, 

Never  open  to  the  crowd, 
While  to  love  me  a3'e  and  aye 

Was  the  vow  as  it  was  vowed 
By  thine  eyes  of  stedfast  gray. 

Now  I  sit  alone,  alone — 

And  the  hot  tears  break  and  burn. 
Now,  Beloved,  thou  art  gone, 

Doubt  and  terror  have  their  turn. 
Is  it  love  that  I  have  known  ? 

1  have  known  some  bitter  things — 

Anguish,  anger,  solitude. 
Year  b}-  year  an  evil  brings, 

Year  b}^  year  denies  a  good  ; 
March  winds  violate  my  springs. 

I  have  known  how  sickness  bonds, 
I  have  known  how  sorrow  breaks^- 

How  quick  hopes  have  sudden  ends, 
How  the  heart  thinks  till  it  ache8 

Of  the  smile  Ox"  buried  friends. 

Last,  I  have  known  thee,  m}'^  brave 
Noble  thinker,  lover,  doer  ! 

The  best  knowledge  last  I  have. 
But  thou  comest  as  the  thrower 

Of  fresh  flowers  upo".  a  grave. 


INCLUSIONS. 

Count  what  feelings  used  to  move  me 
Can  this  love  assort  with  those  ? 

Thou,  who  art  so  far  above  mo, 
Wilt  thou  stoop. so,  for  repose? 

Is  it  true  that  thou  canst  love  me  ? 

Do  not  blame  me  if  I  doubt  thee. 

I  can  call  love  by  its  name 
When  thine  arm  is  wrapt  about  me ; 

But  even  love  seems  not  the  same, 
When  I  sit  alone,  without  thee. 

In  thy  clear  eyes  I  desci'ied 
Many  a  proof  of  love,  to-da}' ; 

But  to-night,  those  unbelied 

Speechful  e^'es  being  gone  away, 

There's  the  proof  to  seek,  beside. 

Dost  thou  love  me,  m}'  beloved  ? 

Only  thou  canst  answer  yes  ! 
And,  thou  gone,  the  proof's  disproved, 

And  the  cry  riugs  answerless — 
Dost  thou  love  me,  iwy  beloved  ? 


INCLUSIONS. 

On,  wilt  thou  have  my  hand,  Dear,  to  lie  along  in  thine  ? 
As  a  little  stone  in  a  running  stream,  it  seems  to  lie 

and  pine. 
Now  drop  the  poor  pale  hand.  Dear,  .  .  .  unfit  to  plight 

with  thine. 

Oh,  wilt  thou  have  my  cheek,  Dear,  drawn  closer  to 

thine  own  ? 
My  cheek  is  white,  my  cheek  is  worn,  by  many  a  tear 

run  down. 
Now  leave  a  little  space,  Dear,  .  .  lest  it  should  wet 

thine  own. 

Oh,  must  thou  have  my  soul,  Dear,  commingled  with 

thy  soul? — 
Red  grows  the  cheek,  and  warm  the  hand,  .  .  the  part 

is  in  the  whole  ! 
Nor  hands  nor  cheeks  keep  separate,  when  soul   is 

joined  to  soul. 


SONNi!TS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE.     Z3 


IJs^SUFFTCIENCY. 

There  is  no  one  beside  thee  and  no  one  above  thee 
Thoa  staudest  alone  as  the  nightingale  sings ! 
And  my  words  that  would  praise  thee  are  inipotenl 
things, 
For  none  can  express  thee  though  all  should  approve 
thee. 
I  love  thee,  so.  Dear,  that  I  only  can  love  thee. 

Say,  what  can  I  do  for  thee  ?  weary  thee,  grieve  thee ! 

Lean  on  thy  shoulder,  new  burdens  to  add  ? 

Weap  nij'^  tears  over  thee,  making  thee  sad  ? 
Oh,  hold  me  not — love  me  not !  let  me  retrieve  thee. 

I  love  thee  so,  Dear,  that  I  only  can  leave  theo 


SONNETS. 

FROM    THE    PORTUGUESE. 


\^ 


I  THOUGHT  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 

Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished  for  years, 

Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 

To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young: 

And,  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 

I  saw,  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears. 

The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years. 

Those  of  my  own  life,  who  l\y  turns  had  flung 

A  shadow  across  me.     Straightway  I  was  'ware. 

So  weeping,  how  a  mystic  Shape  did  move 

Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the  hair. 

And  a  voice  said  in  mastery  while  I  strove,  .  . 

"  Guess  now  who  holds  thee?  " — "  Death,"  I  said.    But, 

there. 
The  silver  answer  rang  .  .  "Not  Death,  but  Love." 


But  only  three  in  all  God's  universe 

Have  heard  this  word  thou  hast  said — Himself,  beside 

Thee  speaking,  and  me  listening  !  and  replied 

One  of  us  .  .  that  was  God,  .  .  and  laid  the  curse. 

So  darkl}^  on  my  eyelids,  as  to  amerce 

My  sight  from  seeing  thee — that  if  I  had  died, 


24    SONNETS   FROM   THE   PORTUGUESE. 

The  dc-atbweights  placed  there,  would  have  signified 
Less  absolute  exclusion.     "  Na}^"  is  worse 
From  God  than  from  all  others,  0  my  friend  I 
Men  could  not  part  us  with  their  worldl}-  jars, 
Nor  the  seas  change  us,  nor  the  tempests  bend  ; 
Our  hands  would  touch  for  all  the  mountain-l)ars— 
And,  heaven  being  rolled  between  us  at  the  end, 
We  should  but  vow  the  faster  for  the  stars. 

Unltke  are  we,  unlike  0  princely  Heart ! 

Unlike  our  uses  and  our  destinies. 

Our  ministering  two  angels  look  surprise 

On  one  another,  as  they  strike  athwart 

Their  wings  in  passing.     Thou,  bethink  thee,  art 

A  guest  for  queens  to  social  pageantries. 

With  gages  from  a  hundred  brigliter  eyes 

Than  tears  even  can  make  mine,  to  ply  thy  part 

Of  chief  musician.     What  hast  thou  to  do 

With  looking  from  the  lattice-lights  at  me, 

A  poor,  tired,  wandering  singer,  .  .  singing  through 

The  dark,  and  leaning  up  a  cypress  tree  ? 

The  clirism  is  on  thine  head — on  mine,  the  dew^ 

And  Death  must  dig  the  level  where  these  agree. 

Thou  hast  thy  calling  to  some  palace-floor, 

Most  gracious  singer  of  high  poems!  where 

The  dancers  will  break  footing,  from  the  care 

Of  watching  up  thy  pregnant  lips  for  more. 

And  dost  tliou  lift  this  house's  latch  too  poor 

For  hand  of  thine?  and  canst  thou  think  and  bear 

To  let  th}'  music  drop  here  unaware 

In  folds  of  golden  fulness  at  ray  door  ? 

Look  up  and  see  the  casement  broken  in. 

The  bats  and  oAvlets  builders  in  the  roof  1 

My  cricket  chirps  against  tiiy  mandolin. 

Hush,  call  no  echo  up  in  further  proof 

Of  desolation  !  there's  a  voice  within 

That  weeps  .  .  as  thou  must  sing  ,  .  alone,  aloof 


A  LIFT  my  heav}'-  heart  up  solemnly, 
'    As  once  Electra  her  sepulchral  urn. 


And,  looking  in  thine  eyes,  I  overturn 
The  ashes  at  thy  feet.     Behold  and  see 
What  a  great  heap  of  grief  lay  hid  in  me. 
And  how  the  red  wild  sparkles  dimly  burn 
Through  the  ashen  grayness.     If  thy  foot  in  scorn 
Could  tread  them  out  to  darkness  utterly, 


SONNETS  FKOM  THE  PORTUGUESE.    25 

It  might  be  well  perluaps.     But  if  instead 
Thou  wait  beside  me  for  the  wind  to  blow 
Tlie  gray  dust  up,  .  .  .  those  lauri'l?  on  thine  head 
O  my  beloved,  will  not  shield  thee  so, 
That  none  of  all  the  fires  shall  scorch  and  shred 
.The  hair  beneath.     Stand  further  otf  then  !  go 

L.    ao  from  me.     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 
Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.     Nevermore 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before, 
Without  the  sense  of  that  which  1  forbore,  , 
Thy  touch  upon  the  palm.     The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart  in  mine 
With  pulses  that  beat  doid)le.     What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the  wine 
Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when  I  sue 
God  for  myself,  he  hears  that  name  of  thine. 
And  sees  within  my  eyes,  the  tears  of  two. 

1      The  face  of  all  the  world  is  changed,  I  think, 
I      Since  first  I  heard  the  footsteps  ol  thy  soul 
Move  still,  oh,  still,  beside  me,  as  the3^  stole 
Betwixt  me  and  the  dreadful  outer  brink  lL 

Of  obvious  death,  where  I,  vvho  thought  to  sink, 
Was  caught  up  into  love,  and  taught  the  whole 
Of  life  in  a  new  rhythm.     The  cup  of  dole 
God  gave  for  baptism,  I  am  fain  to  drink, 
And  praise  its  sweetness,  Sweet,  with  thee  anear. 
The  names  of  country,  heaven,  are  changed  away 
.For  where  thou  art  or  shalt  be,  there  or  here ; 
And  this  .  .  this  lute  and  song  .  .  loved  yesterday, 
(The  singing  angels  know)  are  only  dear. 
Because  thy  name  moves  right  in  what  they  say. 

What  can  T  give  thee  back,  0  liberal 

And  princel}'  giver,  who  has  brought  the  gold 

And  purple  of  thine  heart,  unstained,  untold, 

And  laid  them  on  the  outside  of  the  wall 

For  such  as  I  to  take  or  leave  withal, 

In  unexpected  largesse  ?  am  I  cold. 

Ungrateful,  that  for  these  most  manifold 

High  gifts,  I  render  nothing  back  at  all? 

Not  so ;  not  cold — but  very  poor  instead. 

Ask  God  who  knows.     For  frequent  tears  have  run 


26  SONNETS      FROM      THE      PORTUGUESK 

The  colors  from  my  life,  and  left  so  dead 
And  p.ile  a  stuff,  it  were  not  fitly  done 
To  give  the  same  as  pillow  to  th}-  head. 
Go  farther!  let  it  serve  to  trample  on. 

Can  it  be  right  to  give  what  I  can  give  ? 

To  let  thee  sit  beneath  the  fall  of  tears 

As  salt  as  mine,  and  hear  the  sighing  years 

Ee-sighing  on  my  lips  renunciative 

Through  those  infrequent  smiles  which  fail  to  live 

For  all  thy  adjurations  ?     O  my  fears, 

That  this  can  scarce  be  right !     We  are  not  peers, 

So  to  be  lovers ;  and  I  ov/n,  and  grieve. 

That  givers  of  such  gifts  as  mine  are,  must 

Be  counted  with  the  ungenerous.     Out,  alas! 

I  will  not  soil  thy  purple  with  my  dust. 

Nor  breathe  my  poison  on  thy  Venice-glass, 

Nor  give  thee  any  love  .  .  .  which  were  unjust. 

Beloved,  I  only  love  thee !  let  it  pass, 

v>  Yet,  love,  mere  love,  is  beautiful  indeed 
And  worthy  of  acceptation.     Fire  is  bright, 
Let  temple  burn,  or  flax.     An  equal  light  r^ 

Leaps  in  the  flame  from  cedar-plank  or  weed.  ^ 

And  love  is  fire ;  and  when  I  say  at  need 
/  love  thee  .  .  mark  !  .  .  /  love  thee  I  .  .  in  thy  siglit 
I  stand  transfigured,  glorified  aright. 
With  conscience  of  the  new  rays  that  proceed 
Out  of  my  face  toward  thine.     There's  nothing  low 
In  love,  when  love  the  lowest:  meanest  creatures 
Who  love  God,  God  accepts  while  loving  so. 
And  what  I  feel,  across  the  inferior  features 
Of  what  I  am,  doth  flash  itself,  and  show 
How  that  great  work  of  Love  enhances  Nature's. 

And  therefore  if  to  love  can  be  desert, 

I  am  not  all  unworthy.     Cheeks  as  pale 

As  these  you  see,  and  trembling  knees  that  fail 

To  bear  the  burden  of  a  heavy  heart — 

This  wearj^  minstrel-life  that  once  was  girt 

To  climb  Aornns,  and  can  scarce  avail 

To  pipe  now  'gainst  the  valley  nightingale 

A  melancholy  music — why  advert 

To  these  things  ?  O  Beloved,  it  is  plain 

I  am  not  of  thy  worth  nor  for  thy  place  I 

And  3'et,  because  I  love  thee,  I  obtain 

From  that  same  love  this  vindicating  grace. 


SONNETS  FROM  THE  P0RTUGUK8T!.     " 

To  live  on  still  in  love,  and  yet  in  vain,  .  . 
To  bless  thee,  yet  renounce  thee  to  thy  face. 

Indeed  this  very  love  which  is  my  boast, 
'^'^  And  which,  when  rising  up  from  breast  to  brow. 

Both  crown  me  with  a  ruby  large  enow  / 

To  draw  men's  e^yes  and  prove  the  inner  cost,  .  .  ^ 

This  love  even,  all  my  wortli,  to  the  uttermost, 

I  should  not  love  withal,  unless  that  thou 

Hadst  set  me  an  exapmle,  shown  me  how. 

When  first  thine  earnest  eyes  witli  mine  were  crossed 

And  love  called  love.     And  thus,  I  cannot  speak 

Of  love  even,  as  a  good  thing  of  my  own. 

Thy  soul  hath  snatched  up  mine  all  faint  and  weak, 

And  placed  it  by  thee  on  a  golden  throne — 

And  that  I  love  (0  soul,  we  must  be  meek !) 

Is  b}'  thee  only,  whom  I  love  alone. 

I     And  wilt  thou  have  me  fashion  into  speech 
i'^    The  love  I  bear  thee,  finding  words  enough. 

And  hold  the  torch  out,  while  the  winds  are  rough, 

Between  our  faces,  to  cast  light  on  each  ? — 

I  drop  it  at  thy  feet.     I  cannot  teach 

M}^  hand  to  hold  my  spirit  so  far  oJI" 

From  myself.  .  me  .  .  that  I  should  bring  thee  prool 

In  words,  of  love  hid  in  me  out  of  reach. 

Na3%  let  the  silence  of  my  womanhood 

Commend  m}'  woman-love  to  thy  belief — 

Seeing  that  I  stand  uuwon,  however  wooed. 

And  rend  the  garment  of  my  life,  in  brief, 

B}^  a  most  dauntless,  voiceless  fortitude, 

Lest  one  touch  of  this  heart  convey  its  grief 

/4f  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  naught 
\^/  Except  for  love's  sake  only.     Do  not  say ' 

"  I  love  her  for  her  smile  .  .  her  look  .  .  her  way 

Of  speaking  gently,  .  .  for  a  trick  of  thought 

That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes  brought 

A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day  " —  >-^ 

For  these  things  in  themselves,  Beloved,  may  / 

Be  changed,  or  change  for  thee — and  love,  so  wrought 

May  be  unwrought  so.     Neither  love  me  for 

Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  m}'  cheeks  ^xy — 

A  creature  might  forget  to  weep,  who  l)ore 

Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love  thereby  ! 

But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 

Thou  may'st  love  on,  through  love's  eteinity. 


28    SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESK. 

Accuse  me  not,  beseech  thee,  that  I  wear 
Too  calm  and  sad  a  face  in  front  of  thine ; 
For  we  tvvo  look  two  wa\'S,  and  cannot  shine 
With  the  same  sunlight  on  our  brow  and  hair. 
On  me  thou  lookest,  with  no  doubting  care, 
As  on  a  bee  shut  in  a  cr^'stalline — 
Since  sorrow  liath  shut  me  safe  in  love's  divine, 
And  to  spread  wing  and  fly  in  the  outer  air 
Were  most  impossible  failure,  if  I  strove 
To  fail  so.     But  I  look  on  thee  .  .  on  thee  .  . 
Beholding,  besides  love,  the  end  of  love, 
Hearing  oblivion  be_yond  memory  ! 
As  one  who  sits  and  gazes  from  above, 
Over  the  rivers  to  the  bitter  sea. 

And  yet,  because  thou  overcomest  so, 
Because  thou  art  more  noble  and  like  a  king, 
Thou  canst  prevail  against  my  fears  and  fling 
Thy  purple  round  me,  till  my  heart  shall  grow 
Too  close  against  thine  heart,  henceforth  to  know 
How  it  sliook  when  alone.     Wh^',  conquering 
May  prove  as  lordly  and  complete  a  thing 
In  lifting  upward,  as  in  crushing  low! 
And  as  a  vanquished  soldier  yields  his  sword 
To  one  who  lifts  him  from  the  bloody  earth- 
Even  so,  Beloved,  I  at  last  record, 
Here  ends  my  strife.     If  thou  invite  me  forth, 
I  rise  above  abasement  at  the  word. 
Make  thy  love  larger  to  enlarge  my  worth. 

My  poet,  thou  canst  touch  on  all  the  notes 

God  set  between  His  After  and  Before, 

And  strike  up  and  strike  off  the  general  roar 

Of  the  rushing  worlds,  a  melody  that  floats 

In  a  serenS  air  purely.     Antidotes 

Of  medicated  music,  answering  for 

Mankind's  forlornest  uses,  thou  canst  pour 

From  thence  into  their  ears.     God's  will  devotes 

Thine  to  such  ends,  and  mine  to  wait  on  thine. 

How,  Dearest,  wilt  thou  have  me  for  most  use? 

A  hope,  to  sing  by  gladly  ?  .  ,  or  a  fine 

Sad  memory,  with  thy  songs  to  interfuse  ? 

A  shade,  in  which  to  sing  ...  of  palm  or  pine  ? 

A  grave,  on  which  to  rest  from  singing  ?  .,  .  Choose. 

I  NEVER  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away 
To  a  man.  Dearest,  except  this  to  thee, 
39 


^ 


V' 


BONNETS      FROM      THE      PORTUGUESE.  29 

Which  now  upon  my  fingers  thoughtfully 

I  ring  out  to  tlie  full  brown  length  and  say 

"  Take  it."     JNly  day  of  youth  went  yesterday  ; 

My  hair  no  longer  bounds  to  my  foot's  glee. 

Nor  plant  I  it  from  rose  or  myrtle-tree, 

As  girls  do,  any  more.     It  only  may 

Now  shade  on  two  pale  eheeks,  the  mark  of  tears. 

Taught  drooping  from  the  head  that  hangs  aside 

Through  sorrow's  trick.     1  thought  the  funeral-shears 

Would  take  this  first,  but  Love  is  justified — ■ 

Take  it  thou,  .  .  finding  pure,  from  all  those  years, 

The  kiss  my  mother  left  here  when  she  died. 

\j       The  soul's  Rialto  hath  its  merchandise; 
I  barter  curl  for  cuil  upon  that  mart, 
And  from  my  poet's  forehead  to  my  heart, 
Receive  this  lock  which  outweighs  argosies — 
As  purely  black,  as  erst,  to  Pindar's  eyes. 
The  dim  purpureal  tresses  gloomed  athwart 
The  nine  white  Muse-brows.     For  this  counterpart,  . 
Thy  bay-crown's  shade,  Beloved,  I  surmise, 
Still  lingers  on  th^'^  curl,  it  is  so  black  ! 
Thus,  with  a  fillet  of  smooth-kissing  breath, 
I  tie  the  sliadow  safe  from  gliding  back. 
And  lay  the  gift  where  nothing  hindereth. 
Here  on  my  heart,  as  on  th3'  brow,  to  lack 
Jso  natural  heat  till  mine  grows  cold  in  death. 

Beloved,  ni}^  Beloved,  when  I  think 

That  thou  wast  in  the  world  a  year  ago, 

What  time  I  sat  alone  here  in  the  snow   , 

And  saw  no  footprint,  heard  the  silence  sink 

No  moment  at  thy  voice,  .  .  but,  link  by  link, 

Went  counting  all  my  cliains,  as  if  that  so 

They  never  could  fall  off  at  any  blow    * 

Struck  b3'  tli}'  possible  hand  ....  whj',  thus  I  drink 

Of  life's  great  cup  of  wonder  !     Wonderful, 

Never  to  feel  thee  thrill  the  day  or  night 

With  personal  act  or  speech — nor  ever  cull 

Some  prescience  of  thee  with  the  blossoms  white 

Thou  sawest  growing!     Atheists  are  as  dull. 

Who  cannot  guess  God's  presence  out  of  sight. 

Say  over  again,  and  yet  once  over  again, 
That  thou  dost  love  me.     Though  the  world  repeated 
Should  seem  "a  cuckoo-song,''  as  thou  dost  treat  it. 
Remember  never  to  the  hill  or  plain, 


r 


30 


SONNEl'S  FKOM  THE  P0RTFGFK8K. 


Valle}'  and  wood,  without  her  cuckoo-strain, 

Conies  tlie  IVesli  Spring  in  all  her  green  completed. 

Beloved,  I.  amid  the  darkness  greeted 

By  a  doubtful  spirit-voice,  in  that  doubt's  pain 

Ciy  •  •  "Speak   once    more  .  .  thou  lovest!"     \Yhr. 

can  fear 
Too  many  stars,  though  each  in  heaven  shall  roll- 
Too  many  flowers,  though  each  can  crown  the  year? 
Say  thou  dost  love  me,  love  nie,  love  me— toll 
The  silver  iterance! — only  minding,  Dear, 
To  love  me  also  in  silence,  with  thy  soul. 

^  When  our  two  souls  stand  up  erect  and  strong, 
'      Face  to  face,  silent,  drawing  nigh  and  nigher,'' 
Until  the  lengthening  wings  break  into  fire 
At  either  curved  point — what  bitter  wrong 
Can  the  earth  do  to  us,  that  we  should  not  long 
Be  here  contented  ?     Think.     In  mounting  higher, 
The  angels  would  press  on  us,  and  aspire 
To  drop  some  golden  orb  of  perfect  song 
Into  our  deep,  dear  silence.     Let  us  stay 
Rather  on  earth,  Beloved — where  the  unfit 
Contrarious  moods  of  men  recoil  away 
And  isolate  pure  spirits,  and  permit 
A  place  to  stand  and  love  in  for  a  day, 
With  darkness  and  the  death-hour  roundino-  it 


<V, 


i 


Is  IT  indeed  so  ?     If  I  lay  here  dead, 
Would.st  thou  miss  any  life  in  losing  mine  ? 
And  would  the  sun  for  thee  more  coldly  shine, 
Because  of  grave-damps  falling  round  my  head  ? 
I  marvelled  my  Beloved,  when  I  read 

Thy  thought  so  in  the  letter.     I  am  thine 

But  .  .  i<o  much  to  thee?     Can  I  pour  thy  wine 

While  my  hands  tremble?     Then  my  soul  instead 

Of  dreams  of  death,  resumes  life's  lower  range. 

Then,  love  me.  Love  !  look  on  me  .  .  breathe  on  rjc 

As  brighter  ladies  do  not  count  it  strange, 

For  love,  to  give  up  acres  and  degree, 

I  yield  the  grave  for  thy  sake,  and  exchange 

My  near  sweet  view  of  Heaven,  for  earth  with  thee  1 

Let  the  world's  sharpness  like  a  clasping  knife 
Shut  in  upon  itself  and  do  no  harm 
In  this  close  hand  of  Love,  now  soft  and  warm, 
And  let  us  hear  no  sound  of  human  strife 

After  the  click  of  the  shutting.     Life  to  life 

I  lean  upon  thee,  Dear,  without  alarm, 


SONNETS      FROM      THE      I-»RTUGUKSK.  31 

A.nd  feel  ar.  safe  as  guarded  by  a  charm 
Against  the  stab  of  woildliiigs,  who,  if  rife, 
Are  weak  to  injure.     Very  whitely  still 
The  lilies  of  our  lives  may  reassure 
Their  blossoms  from  their  roots,  accessible 
Alone  to  heavenly  dews  that  drop  not  fewer; 
Growing  straight  out  of  man's  reach,  on  the  hill. 
Grod  only,  who  made  us  rich,  can  make  us  poor. 

.     A  HEAVY  heart,  Beloved,  have  I  borne 
V    Fi'om  year  to  year  until  I  saw  th}'  face, 
And  sorrow  after  sorrow  took  the  place 
Of  all  those  natural  joys  as  lightly  worn 
As  the  stringed  pearls  .   .   each  lifted  in  its  turn 
By  a  beating  heart  at  dance-time.     Hopes  apace 
Were  changed  to  long  despairs,  till  God's  own  grace 
Could  scarcely  lift  above  the  world  forlorn 
My  heavy  heart.     Then  thou  didst  bid  me  bring 
And  let  it  drop  ad  own  thy  calml}^  great 
Deep  being!     Fast  it  sinketh,  as  a  thing 
Which  its  own  nature  doth  precipitate, 
"While  thine  doth  close  above  it,  mediating 
Betwixt  the  stars  and  the  unaccomplished  fate. 

,      1  LIVED  with  visions  for  my  company, 

^     Instead  of  men  and  women,  3ears  ago. 

And  found  thera  gentle  mates,  nor  thought  to  know 

A  sweeter  music  than  they  played  to  me. 

But  soon  their  trailing  purple  was  not  free 

Of  this  world's  dust — their  lutes  did  silent  grow, 

And  1  myself  ^rew  faint  and  blind  below 

Their  vanishing  eyes.     Then  thou  didst  come  .  .  to  be, 

Beloved,  what  the}'  seemed.     Their  shining  fronts, 

Their  songs,  their  splendors,  (better,  yet  the  same, 

As  river-water,  hallowed  into  fonts) 

Met  in  thee,  and  from  out  thee  overcame 

My  soul  with  satisfaction  of  all  wants — 

Because  God's  gifts  put  man's  best  dreams  to  shaiae. 


7 


My  own  beloved,  who  hast  lifted  me 
From  this  drear  flat  of  earth  where  I  w'as  thrown, 
And,  in  betwixt  the  languid   ringlets,  blown 
A  life-breath,  till  the  forehead  hopefully 
Shines  out  again,  as  all  the  angels  see, 
Before  thy  saving  kiss!     My  own,  my  own. 
Who  camest  to  me  when  the  world  was  gone. 
And  I  who  looked  for  only  God  found  Ihee  ! 


"^2    SONNETS  FROM  TUE  PORTUGUESE. 

I  find  thee ;  I  am  safe,  and  strong,  and  glad. 
As  one  who  stands  in  dewless  asphodel, 
Looks  backward  on  the  tedious  time  he  had 
In  the  upper  life -so  I,  with  bosom  swell. 
Make  witness,  here,  between  the  good  and  bad. 
That  Love,  as  strong  as  Death,  retrieves  as  well. 

f       My  letters  !  all  dead  paper,  .  .  mute  and  white  !^. 
v1iA.nd  yet  they  seem  alive  and  quivering 
Agains*:  my  tremulous  hands  which  loose  the  strincr 
And  let  them  drop  down  on  my  knee  to-night. 
This  said,  .  .  he  wished  to  have  me  in  his  sight 
Once,  as  a  friend  :  this  fixed  a  day  in  spring- 
To  come  and  touch  my  hand  ...  a  simple  thing, 
Yet  I  wept  for  it ! — this,  .  .  the  paper's  liglit  .  . 
Said.  Dear,  I  Love  thee ;  and  I  sank  and  quailed 
As  if  God's  future  thundered  on  my  past. 
This  said,  I  am  thine — and  so  its  ink  has  paled 
With  lying  at  my  heart  that  beat  too  fast. 
And  this  .  ,  .  0  Love,  thy  words  have  ill  availed, 
If  wliat  this  said,  I  dared  repeat  at  last ! 

\   I  THINK  of  thee  ! — my  thoughts  do  twine  and  bud 
'';   '   About  thee,  as  wild  vines,  about  a  tree, 

Put  out  broad  leaves,  and  soon  there's  naught  to  see 

Except  the  straggling  green  which  hides  the  wood. 

Yet,  0  my  palm-tree,  be  it  understood 

I  v/ill  not  have  my  thoughts  instead  of  thee 

Who  art  dearer,  better !  rather  instantly 

llenew  thy  presence.     As  a  strong  tree  should. 

Rustle  thy  boughs  and  set  thy  trunk  all  Itare, 

And  let  these  bands  of  greener^'  wliich  insphere  thee 

Drop  heavily  down,  .  .  burst,  shattered,  everywhere 

Because,  in  this  deep  joy  to  see  and  hear  thee 

And  breathe  within  thy  shadow  a  new  air, 

I  do  not  think  of  thee — I  am  too  near  thee. 

I  SEE  thine  image  through  my  tears  to-night, 
.  \j  And  3'et  to-day  I  saw  thee  smiling.     How 
Refer  the  cause? — Beloved,  is  it  thou, 
Or  I  ?  Avho  makes  me  sad  ?     The  acolyte 
Amid  the  chanted  joy  and  thankful  rite. 
May  so  fall  flat,  with  pale  insensate  brow. 
On  the  altar-stair.     I  hear  thy  voice  and  vow 
Perplexeti,  uncertain,  since  thou  art  out  of  sight, 
As  he,  in  his  swooning  ears,  the  choir's  amen. 
Beloved,  dost  thou  love  ?  or  did  1  see  all 
39* 


^ 


^ 


SONNETS   FROM  THE   PORTUGUESE.    33 

The  glory  as  I  dreamed,  and  fainted  when 

Too  vehement  light  dilated  ni}-  ideal, 

For  ni3'  soul's  eyes?     \Vill  that  light  come  again. 

As  now  these  tears  come  .  .  .  falling  hot  and  real? 

Thou  comest !  all  is  said  without  a  word. 

I  sit  beneath  thy  looks,  as  children  do 

In  the  noon-sun,  with  souls  that  tremble  through 

Their  happ}'  e^'elids  from  and  unaverred 

Yet  prodigal  inward  J03'.     Behold,  I  erred 

In  that  last  doubt!  and  yet  1  cannot  rue 

The  sin  most,  but  the  occasion  .  .  .  that  we  two 

Should  for  a  moment  stand  unministered 

B\'  a  mutual  presence.     Ah,  keep  near  and  close, 

Thou  dovelike  help!  and,  when  my  fears  would  rise, 

With  thy  broad  heart  serenely  interpose. 

Brood  down  with  thy  divine  sufficiencies 

Tiiese  thouglits  which  tremble  when  bereft  of  those, 

Like  callow  birds  left  desert  to  the  skies. 

The  first  time  that  the  sun  rose  on  thine  oath 

To  love  me,  I  looked  forward  to  tiie  moon 

To  slacken  all  those  bonds  which  seemed  too  soon 

And  quickl}'  tied  to  make  a  lasting  troth. 

Qnick-loviug  hearts,  I  thought,  may  quickly  loathe  ; 

And,  looking  on  myself,  I  seemed  not  one 

For  such  man's  love  !-^more  like  an  out  of  tune 

Worn  viol,  a  good  singer  would  be  wroth 

To  spoil  his  song  with,  and  wliich,  snatched  in  haste 

Is  laid  down  at  the  first  ill-sounding  note. 

1  did  not  wrong  myself  so,  but  I  placed 

A  wrong  on  thee.     For  perfect  strains  may  float 

'Neath  master-hands,  from  instruments  defaced —      j 

And  great  souls,  at  one  stroke,  may  do  and  doat. 

Yes,  call  me  by  my  pet-name  !  let  me  hear 
The  name  I  used  to  run  at,  when  a  child. 
From  innocent  play,  and  leave  the  cowslips  piled, 
To  glance  up  in  some  face  that  proved  me  dear 
With  the  look  of  its  eyes.     I  miss  the  clear 
Fond  voices,  which,  being  drawn  and  reconciled 
Into  the  music  of  Heaven's  undefiled, 
Call  me  no  longer.     Silence  on  the  bier. 
While  I  call  God  .  .  call  God  ! — So  let  thy  mouth 
Be  heir  to  those  who  are  now  exanimate. 
Gather  the  north  flowers  to  complete  the  south, 
And  catch  the  early  love  up  in  the  late. 


\ 


34    SONNETS  FROM  THE   PORTUGUKSK. 

^es,  call  me  by  that  name — and  I,  in  truth, 
With  the  same  heart,  will  answer,  and  not  wait. 

With  the  same  heart,  I  said,  I'll  answer  thee 
As  those,  when  thovi  shalt  call  me  by  m_y  name — 
rtj  *        Lo,  the  vain  promise !  is  the  same,  the  same, 
Perplexed  and  ruffled  by  life's  strateo-y? 
When  called  before,  I  told  how  hastil^^ 
I  dropped  my  flowers  or  brake  off  from  a  game. 
To  run  and  answer  with  the  smile  that  came 
At  pla}'  last  moment,  and  went  on  with  me 
Through  mj'  obedience.      When   I  answer  now, 
I  drop  a  grave  thought — break  fr(;m  solitude  ; — 
Yet  still  my  heart  goes  to  thee  .  .  .   ponder  how  . 
N^ot  as  to  a  single  good,  but  all  my  good  ! 
Lay  thy  hand  on  it,  best  one,  and  allow 
That  no  child's  foot  could  run  fast  as  this  ])lood. 

If  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange 
.       And  be  all  to  me  ?     Shall  I  never  miss 
/       Home-talk  and  blessing  and  the  common  kiss 
V       That  comes  to  each  in  turn,  nor  count  it  strauge, 
'\.i      When  I  look  up,  to  drop  on  a  new  range  / 

'         Of  walls  and  floors  .  .   another  home  than  this  ? 
Nay,  wilt  thou  fill  that  place  by  me  which  is 
Filled  by  dead  eyes  too  tender  to  know  change  ? 
That's  hardest.     If  to  conquer  love,  has  tried, 
To  conquer  grief,  tries  more  .  .  .  as  all  things  pro\o; 
For  grief  indeed  is  love  and  grief  beside. 
Alas  I  have  grieved  so  I  am  hard  to  love. 
Yet  loA-e  mo — wilt  thou  ?     Open  thine  heart  wide, 
And  fold  Avithin,  the  wet  wings  of  thy  dove. 

When-  we  met  first  and  loved,  I  did  not  build 
Upon  the  event  with  marble.      Could  it  mean 
To  last,  a  love  set  pendulous  between 
Sorrow  and  sorrow  ?     Nay,  I  rather  thrilled, 
Di-strusting  every  light  tliat  seemed  to  gild 
^       The  onward  path,  and  feared  to  overlean 
%  A  finger  even.     And,  though  I  have  grown  serene 

And  strong  since  then,  I  think  that  God  has  willed 
A  still  renewable  fear  .  .  0  love,  0  troth  .  . 
Lest  these  unclasped  hands  should  never  hold, 
This  mutual  kiss  drop  down  between  us  both 
As  an  unowned  thing,  once  the  lips  beino-  cold. 
And  Love,  be  false!  if  he,  to  keep  one  oath, 
Must  lose  one  joy,  by  his  life's  star  foretold, 


■\ 


SONNETS  FROM  THE   rORTUGUESE.    3c 

Pardon,  oh,  pardon,  that  mj'  soul  should  make 
Of  all  that  strong-  divincness  which  I   know 
For  thine  and  thee,  an  inuige  only  so 
Formed  of  the  sand,  and  fit  to  sliil't  and  break. 
-      It  is  that  distant  3-ears  which  did  not  take 
7  Th}'  sovranty,  recoiling  with  a  blow, 

Have  forced  my  swinuning  brain  to  undergo 
Their  donbt  and  bread,  and  blindly  to  forsake 
Thy  purity  of  likeness,  and  distorn 
Thy  worthiest  love  to  a  worthless  counterfeit. 
As  if  a  shipwrecked  Pagan,  safe  in  port, 
His  guardian  sea-god  to  commemorate, 
Should  set  a  sculptured  porpoise,  gills  a-snort 
And  vibrant  tail,  within  the  temple-gate. 

First  time  he  kissed  me,  he  hut  only  kissed 
The  fingers  of  this  hand  wherewith  I  write  ; 
And,  ever  since,  it  grew  more  clean  and  white,  . 
Slow  to  world-greetings  .  .  quick  with  its  "  Oh,  list," 
When  the  angels  speak.     A  ring  of  amethyst 
s         I  could  not  wear  here,  plainer  to  my  sight, 
•    '        Than  that  first  kiss,     "^rhe  second  passed  in  height 
The  first,  and  sought  the  forehead,  and  half  missed, 
Half  falling  on  the  hair.     0  beyond  meed  ! 
That  was  the  chrism  of  love,  which  love's  own  crowi^, 
With  sanctifying  sweetness,  did  precede. 
The  third  upon  my  lips  was  folded  down 
In  perfect,  purple  state  ;  since  when,  indeed, 
I  have  been  proud  and  said,  "  ^ly  love,  my  own." 


Because  thou  hast  the  power  and  own'st  the  grace 
To  look  through  and  behind  this  mask  of  me, 
(Against  which  years  have  beat  thus  blanchingly 
With  their  rains,)  and  behold  my  soul's  true  face, 
The  dim  and  weary  witness,  of  life's  race ! — 
Because  thou  hast  the  faith  and  loA'e  to  see. 
Through  that  same  soul's  distracting  letharg}', 
The  patient  angel  waiting  for  a  i)lace 
In  the  new  Heavens  ! — because  nor  sin  nor  woe. 
Nor  God's  infiiction   nor  death's  neighborhood. 
Nor  all  which  others  viewing,  turn  to  go,  .  . 
Nor  all  which  makes  me  tired  of  all,  self-viewed,  .  . 
Nothing  repels  thee,  .  .  Dearest,  teach  me  so 
To  pour  out  gratitude,  as  thou  dost,  good. 


/a 


On,  j-es!  the}'  love  through  all  this  world  of  ours  I 
I  will  not  gainsay  love,  called  love  forsooth. 


■^Q  SOXNETS   FUOM  THE   PORTUGUESE- 

I  have  heard  love  talked  in  my  early  youth, 
And  since,  not  so  long  back  but  that  the  flowers 
Then  gathered,  smell  still.     Mussulmans  and  Giaours 
Throw  kerchiefs  at  a  smile,  and  have  no  ruth 
^  '     For  any  weeping.     Polypheme's  white  tooth 
'      Slips  on  the  nut,  if,  after  frequent  showers, 
The  shell  is  over-smooth — and  not  so  much 
Will  turn  the  thing  called  love,  aside  to  hate, 
Or  else  to  oblivion.     But  thou  art  not  such 
A  lover,  my  Beloved!  thou  canst  wait 
Through  sorrow  and  sickness,  to  bring  souls  to  touch, 
And  think  it  soon  when  others  cvy,  "  Too  late." 

y^I  THANK  all  who  have  loved  me  in  their  hearts. 

With  thanks  and  love  from  mine.     Deep  thanks  to  all 
Who  paused  a  little  near  the  prison-wall. 
To  hear  my  music  in  its  louder  parts. 
Ere  they  went  onward,  each  one  to  the  mart's 
\^  Or  temple's  occupation,  beyond  call. 
\^     But  thou,  who,  in  my  voice's  sink  and  fall, 
^  ■    When  the  sob  took  it,  thy  divinest  Art's 

Own  instrument  didst  drop  down  at  thy  foot, 
To  hearken  what  I  said  between  my  tears,  -  . 
Instruct  me  how  to  thank  thee  ! — Oh,  to  shoot 
My  soul's  full  meaning  into  future  yeai's. 
That  they  should  lend  it  utterance,  and  salute 
Love  that  endures,  from  Life  that  disappears  I 

^3Iy  future  will  not  copy  fair  my  ^^r/s^," — 
I  wrote  that  once  ;  and  thinking  at  my  side 
M3'  ministering  life-angel  justified 
The  word  by  his  appealing  look  upcast 
To  the  white  throne  of  God,  I  turned  at  last, 
,jAnd  there,  instead,  saw  thee,  not  unallied 
To  angels  in  th}'  soul ! — Then  I,  long  tried 
\    By  natural  ills,  received  the  comfort  fast. 

While  budding,  at  th}-  sight,  m}^  i)ilgrim's  staff 

Gave  out  green  leaves  with  morning  dews  impearled 

I  seek  no  cop}^  now  of  life's  first  half: 

Leave  here  the  pages  with  long  musing  curled, 

And  write  me  new  my  future's  epigraph, 

'S/k'w  angel  mine,  unhoped  for  in  the  world ! 

[ow  do  I  love  thee  ?     Let  me  count  the  ways, 
I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and  height 
My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of  sight 
For  the  cads  of  Beinsr  and  ideal  Grace. 


BONNETS  FROM  THE   PORTUQUESB,   37 

[  love  thee  to  the  level  of  everyda^^'s 
Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candlelight. 
I  love  tliee  freely,  as  men  strive  lor  Right ; 
/         I  love  tliee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise. 
1  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 
In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's  faith. 
I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 
With  my  lost  saints — I  love  thee  with  the  breath, 
Smiles,  tears,  of  all  m}-  life  ! — and,  if  God  choose, 

\I_  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 
Beloved,  thou  hast  brought  me  many  flowers 
Phrcked  in  the  gard^'en,  all  the  summer  through 
And  winter,  and  it  seemed  as  if  they  grew 
In  this  close  room,  nor  missed  the  sun  and  showers. 

in  the  like  name  of  that  love  of  ours, 
Jake  back  these  thoughts  which  here  unfolded  too, 
■'   And  which  on  warm  and  cold  days  I  withdrew 

From  ni}'  heart's  ground.      Indeed,  those  beds   and 

bowers 
Be  overgrown  "with  bitter  weeds  and  rue, 

And  wait  thy  weeding  :  yet  here's  eglantine,  .  _ 

Here's  iv^' ! — take  them,  as  I  used  to  do  ^^- 

Thy  flowers,   and   keep    them    where    they    shall   not 

pine. 
Instruct  thine  eyes  to  keep  their  colors  true, 
And  tell  thy  soul,  their  roots  are  left  in  mine. 


in  u 

X  So,  i 

\"^Takt 


■\S  CA8A     GUIDI     WINDOWS. 


CASA  GUIDI  WINDOWS. 

A  POEM  IN  TWO  PARTS. 


ADVERTISEMENT  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITIOX. 

This  poem  contai>is  the  impressions  of  the  writer  upon  events 
fn  Tuscany  of  which  she  was  a  witness.  "  From  a  AVindow,"  the 
critic  may  demur.  She  bows  to  the  objection  in  the  very  title  of 
her  work.  No  continuous  narrative  nor  exj)Osition  of  politic:.! 
philosophj'  is  attempted  by  her.  It  is  a  simple  story  of  personal 
impressions,  whose  only  value  is  in  the  intensity  witii  which  they 
were  received,  as  proving  her  warm  affection  for  a  beautiful  and 
unfortunate  country,  and  the  sincerity  with  which  they  arc  related, 
as  indicating  her  own  good  faith  and  freedom  from  partizanship. 

Of  the  two  parts  of  this  poem,  the  first  was  written  nearly  three 
years  ago,  while  the  second  resumes  the  actual  situation  of  1851. 
The  discrepancy  between  the  two  parts  is  a  sufficient  guarantee 
to  the  public  of  the  truthfulness  of  the  writer,  who,  though  she 
certainly  escaped  the  epidemic  "f;alling  sickness"  of  enthusiasm 
for  Pio  Nino,  takes  shame  upon  herself  that  she  believed,  like  a 
woman,  some  royal  oaths,  and  lost  sight  of  the  probable  conse- 
quences  of  some   obvious   popular  defects.     If  the   discrepancy 
should  be  painful  to  the  reader,  let  him  understand  that  to  the 
writer  it  has  been  more  so.     But  such  discrepancies  we  are  called 
upon  to  accept  at  every  hour  by  the  conditions  of  our  nature,  im- 
plj'ing  the  interval  between  aspiration  and  performance,  between 
faith  and  disillusion,  between  hope  and  fact. 
"0  trusted  broken  prophecy, 
0  richest  fortune  sourly  crost, 
Born  for  the  future,  to  the  future  lost !' 
Nay,  not  lost  to  the  future  in  this  case.     The  future  of  Italy  shall 
not  be  disinherited. 

Florence,  1851. 


PART  I. 

I  HEART)  last  night  a  little  child  go  singing 

'Xeath  Casa  Guidi  windows,  bj'  the  church, 
0  be.Ua  liberfd,  0  bella  !  stringing' 

The  same  words  still  on  notes  he  went  in  search 
So  high  for,  3'ou  concluded  the  upspringing 

Of  such  a  nimble  bird  to  sk}^  from  perch 
Mu'st  leave  the  whole  bush  in  a  tremble  green, 

And  that  the  heart  of  Ital}'  must  beat, 
While  such  a  voice  had  leave  to  rise  serene 

'Twixt  church  and  palace  of  a  Florence  street  I 


C  A  S  A     G  U  I  D  I      WINDOWS.  ,';9 

A  liltle  child,  too,  who  not  long  had  been 
B3'  mother's  finger  steadied  on  his  feet, 
And  still  0  hella  libertd  he  sang. 

Then  I  thought,  musing  of  the  innnmerous 

Sweet  songs  which  still  for  Italy  outrang 
From  older  singers'  lips,  who  sang  not  thus 

Kxultingly  and  purely,  yet,  Avith  pang 
Fast  sheathed  in  music,  touched  the  heart  of  us 

So  finely,  that  the  pity  scarcely  pained. 
r  thought  how  Filicaja  led  on  otiiers. 

Be  wallers  for  tlu'ir  Italy  enchained. 
And  how  they  called  her  childless  among  mothers. 

Widow  of  empires,  ay,  and  scarce  refrained 
Cursing  her  beauty  to  her  face,  as  brothers 

;Might  a  shamed  sister's — "  Had  she  been  less  fair 
She  were  less  wretched" — how,  evoking  so 

From  congregated  wrong  and  heaped  despair 
Of  men  and  women  writhing  under  blow, 

Harrowed  and  hideous  in  a  filthy  lair 
Some  personating  Image,  wherein  woe 

Was  wrapt  in  beauty  from  offending  much. 
They  called  it  C^'bele,  or  Niobe, 

Or  laid  it  corpse-like  on  a  bier  for  such. 
Where  all  the  world  might  drop  for  Ital}' 

Those  cadenced    tears  which  burn  not  where  they 
touch — 
"  Juliet  of  nations,  canst  thou  die  as  we  ? 

And  was  the  violet  crown  that  crowned  thy  head 
So  over-large,  though  new  buds  made  it  rough, 

It  slipped  down  and  across  thine  eyelids  dead 

0  sweet,  fair  Juliet?"     Of  such  songs  enough, 
Too  many  of  such  complaints  !  behold,  instead, 

Void  at  Yerona,  Juliet's  marble  trough.* 

As  void  as  that  is,  are  ad  images 
Men  set  between  themselves  and  actual  wrong, 

To  catch  the  w^eight  of  pity,  meet  the  stress 
Of  conscience — since  'tis  easier  to  gaze  long 

On  mournful  masks,  and  sad  efligies. 
Than  on  real,  live,  weak  creatures  crushed  by  strong. 

For  me  who  stand  in  Ital}'  to-day 
Where  worthier  poets  stood  and  sang  before, 
I  kiss  their  footsteps,  yet  their  words  gainsay, 

1  can  but  muse  in  hope  upon  this  shore 

*  They  show  at  Verona,  as  the  tomb  of.Juliet,  an  emfjty  trough 
of  stou*». 


40  CASA     GUIDI      WINDOWS. 

Of  golden  Anio  as  it  shoots  away 
Throu<ih  Florence'  heart  beneath  her  bridges  fourl 

Bent  bridges,  seeming  to  strain  olTlike  l)OWS, 
And  tremble  while  the  arrowy  undertide 

Shoots  on  and  cleaves  the  marble  as  it  goes, 
And  strikes  up  palace  walls  on  either  side, 

And  froths  the  cornice  out  on  glittering  rows, 
With  doors  and  windows  quaintly  multiplied, 

And  terrace  sweeps,  and  gazers  upon  all, 
B}'^  whom  if  flower  or  kerchief  were  thrown  out 

From  any  lattice  there,  the  same  would  fall 
Into  the  river  underneath  no  doubt, 

It  runs  so  close  and  fast  'twixt  wall  and  wall. 
How  beautiful !  the  mountains  from  without 

In  silence  listen  for  the  word  said  next. 
What  word  will  men  sa}' — here  where  Giotto  planted 

His  campanile,  like  an  unperplexed 
Fine    question    Heaven-ward,    touching    the    things 
granted 

A  noble  people  who,  being  greatly  vexed 
In  act,  in  aspiration  keep  undaunted  ? 

What  word   will    God  saj'  ?       Michel's    Night    and 
Day 
And  Dawn  and  Twilieht  wait  in  marble  scorn,* 

Like  dogs  upon  a  dunghill,  couched  on  clay 
From  whence  the  Medicean  stamp's  outworn, 

The  final  putting  off  of  all  such  sway 
By  all  such  hands,  and  freeing  of  the  unborn 

In  Florence  and  the  great  world  outside  Florence. 
Three  hundred  3'ears  his  patient  statues  wait 

In  that  small  chapel  of  the  dim  St.  Lawrence 
Day's  eyes  are  breaking  bold  and  passionate 

Over  his  shoulder,  and  will  flash  abhorrence 
On  darkness  and  with  level  looks  meet  fate. 

When  once  loose  fi-om  that  marble  film  of  theirs  ; 
The  nigiit  has  wild  dreams  in  her  sleep,  the  Dawn 

Is  haggard  as  the  sleepless.  Twilight  wears 
A  sort  of  horror;  as  the  veil  withdrawn 

'Twixt  the  artist's  soul  and  works   had   left  them 
heiis 
Of  speechless  thoughts  which  would    not   quail   nor 
fawn, 

*  These  famous  statutes  recline  in  the  Sagrcstia  Nuova.  on  the 
tombs  of  Giuliano  de'Medici,  third  son  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent, 
Rud  Lorenzo  of  Urbino,  his  grandson.  Strozzi's  epigram  on  the 
Night,  with  Michel  Angelo's  rejoinder,  is  well  known. 

4C 


C  A  S  A      G  U  I  D  I      WINDOWS.  41 

Of  angers  and  contempts,  of  hope  and  love  ; 
For  not  without  a  meaning  did  he  place 

The  princely  Urbino  on  the  seat  above 
With  everlasting  shadow  on  his  face, 

While  the  slow  dawns  and  tvvilights  disapprove 
The  ashes  of  his  long-extinguished  race, 

Whicli  never  more  shall  clog  the  feet  of  men. 
I  do  believe,  divinest  Angelo, 

That  winter-hour,  in  Via  Larga,  when 
They  batle  thee  build  a  statue  up  in  sntjw,* 

And  straight  that  marvel  of  thine  art  again 
Dissolved  beneath  the  sun's  Italian  glow, 

Thine  eyes,  dilated  with  the  plastic  passion. 
Thawing  too,  in  drops  of  wounded  manhood,  since. 

To  mock  alike  th.ine  art  and  indignation, 
Laughed  nt  the  palace-window  the  new  prince — 

(•'  Aha  !  this  genius  needs  for  exaltation. 
When  all's  said,  and  howe'er  tlie  proud  may  wince, 

A  little  marble  from  our  princely  mines!") 
I  do  believe  that  hour  thou  laughedst  too. 

For  the  whole  sad  world  and  for  thy  Florentines, 
After  those  few  tears — which  Avere  only  few  ! 

Thiit,  as  beneath  tlie  sun,  the  grand  white  lines 
Of  thy  snow-statue  trembled  and  withdrew — 

The  head,  cect  as  Jove's  l)eing  palsied  first, 
Tiie  eyelids  flattened,  tlie  full  brow  turned  blank — 

The  right  hand,  raised  but  now  as  if  it  cured, 
Dropt,  a  mere  snowball,  (till  the  peoi)le  sank 

Their  voices,  though  a  louder  laughter  burst 
From  the  royal  window)  thou  couldst  proudly  thank 

God  and  the  prince  for  promise  and  i)resage. 
And  laugh  the  laugh  back,  I  think  veril}'. 

Thine  eyes  being  purged  l)y  tears  of  righteous  rage 
To  read  a  wrong  into  a  prophecy, 

And  measure  a  true  great  man's  heritage 
Against  a  mere  great  duke's  i)osterity. 

1  think  thy  soul  said  then,  "  1  do  not  need 
"  A  princedom  and  its  quarries,  after  all ; 

For  if  I  write,  paint,  carve  a  word,  indeed, 
On  book  or  board  or  dust,  on  floor  or  wall. 

The  same  is  kept  of  God,  who  taketh  heed 
That  not  a  letter  of  the  meaning  fall 

Or  ere  it  touch  and  teach  His  world's  deep  heart, 
Outlasting,  therefore,  all  your  lordships,  sir  ! 

*  This  mocking  task  was  set  by  Pietro,  the  unworthy  successoi 
of  Lorenzo  the  Magnificeat. 


^o  CASA     GUIDI     WINDOWS. 

So  keep  j-onr  stone,  beseech  3-011,  for  your  part, 
To  cover  up  your  grave-place  and  refer 

The  proper  titles  ;  I  live  by  my  art. 
The  thought  I  threw  into  this  snow  shall  stir 

This  gazing  people  when  their  gaze  is  done ; 
And  the  tradition  of  your  act  and  mine, 

When  all  the  snow  is  melted  in  the  sun, 
Shall  gather  up  for  unborn  men,  a  sign 

Of  what  is  the  true  princedom — ay,  and  none 
Shall  laugh  that  day,  except  the  drunk  with  wine." 

Amen,  great  Angelo  !  the  day's  at  hand. 
If  many  laugh  not  on  it,  shall  we  weep  ? 

Much  more  we  must  not,  let  us  understand. 
Through  rhymers  sonneteering  in  their  sleep. 

And  archaists  mumbling  dry  bones  up  the  land. 
And  sketchers  lauding  ruined  towns  a-heap — 

Through  all  that  drowsy  hum  of  voices  smooth, 
The  hopeful  bird  mounts  carolling  from  brake. 

The  hopeful  child,  with  leaps  to  catch  his  growth 
Signs  open-eyed  for  liberty's  sweet  sake  ! 

And  I,  a  singer  also,  from  my  youth. 
Prefer  to  sing  with  these  who  are  awake. 

With  birds,  with  babes,  with  men  who  will  not  feai 
The  baptism  of  the  holy  morning  dew, 

(And  many  of  such  wakers  now  are  here, 
Complete  in  their  anointed  manhood,  who 

Will  greatly  dare  and  greatlier  persevere,) 
Than  join  those  old  thin  voices  with  my  new, 

And  sigh  for  Italy  with  some  safe  sigh 
Cooped  up  in  music  'twixt  an  oh  and  ah — 

Nay,  hand  in  hand  with  that  3'oung  child,  will  I 
Go  singing  rather,  "  Bella  libertd,^' 

Than,  with  those  poets,  croon  the  dead  or  cvy 
"  Se  tu  men  bella  fossi,  Italia  ! 

"  Less  wretched  if  less  fair."     Perhaps  a  truth 
Is  so  far  plain  in  this — that  Italy, 

Long  trammelled  with  the  purple  of  her  j-outh 
A-gainst  her  age's  ripe  activit,y, 

Sits  still  upon  her  tombs,  without  death's  ruth 
But  also  without  life's  brave  energy. 

"Now  tell  us  what  is  Italy?  "  men  ask: 
And  others  answer,  "  Yirgil,  Cicero, 

Catullus  Caesar."  What  beside?  to  task 
The  memory  closer — "  Why,  Boccaccio, 


CASA     QUID  I     WINDOWS.  ^j 

Dante,  Petrarca  " — and  if  still  the  flask 
Appears  to  yield  its  wine  b,y  drops  too  slow— 

•' Ang-elo,  Raffael,   Pergolese  "-^all 
Whose  strong  hearts  beat  through  stone,  or  charged 
again 

The  paints  with  fire  of  souls  electrical, 
Or  broke  u})  heaven  for  music.     What  more  then  ? 

Why,  then,  no  more.     The  chaplet's   last  beads  fall 
In  naming  the  last  saintship  within  ken, 

And,  after  that,  none  prayeth  in  the  land. 
Alas,  this  Italy  has  too  long  swept 

Heroic  ashes  up  for  hour-glass  sand  ; 
Of  her  own  past,  impassioned  nympholept  ! 

Consenting  to  be  nailed  here  by  the  hand 
To  the  very  bay-tree  under  which  she  stepped 

A  queen  of  old,  and  plucked  a  leafy  branch. 
And,  licensing  the  world  too  long  indeed 

To  use  her  broad  phylacteries  to  staunch 
And  stop  her  i)loody  lips,  she  takes  no  heed 

How  one  clear  word  would  draw  an  avalanche 
Of  living  sons  around  her,  to  succeed 

The  vanished  generations.     Can  she  count 
These  oil-eaters,  with  large,  live,  mobile  mouths 

Agape  for  maccaroni,  in  the  amount 
Of  consecrated  heroes  of  her  south's 

Bright  rosary  ?     The  pitcher  at  the  fount, 
The  gift  of  gods,  being  broken,  she  much  loathes 

To  let  the  ground-leaves  of  the  place  confer 
A  natural  bowl.     So  henceforth  she  Avould  seem 

No  nation,  but  the  poet's  pensioner. 
With  alms  from  ever}'  land  of  song  and  dream, 

While  aye  her  pipers  sadl^'  pipe  of  her, 
Until  their  proper  breaths,  in  that  extreme 

Of  sighing,  split  the  reed  on  which  they  played  I 
Of. which,  no  more.     But  never  say  "no  more  " 

To  Italy's  life!  Her  memories  undismayed 
Still  argue  "  evermore  " — her  graves  implore 

Her  future  to  l)e  strong  and  not  afraid  ; 
Her  very  statues  send  their  looks  before. 

We  do  not  serve  the  dead — the  past  is  past  I 
God  lives,  and  lifts  his  glorious  mornings  up 

Before  the  eyes  of  men,  awake  at  last. 
Who  put  awa}"^  the  meats  the}'  used  to  sup, 

And  down  upon  the  dust  of  earth  outcast 
The  dregs  remaining  of  the  ancient  cup, 


44  CASA     GUIDI      WINDOWS. 

Then  turn  to  wakeful  pra3'er  and  worth}'  act. 
The  dead,  upon  their  awful  'vantage  ground, 

The  sun  not  in  their  faces — shall  abstract 
No  more  our  strength  :  we  will  not  be  discrowned 

As  guardians  of  their  crowns ;  nor  deign  transact 
A  barter  of  the  present,  for  a  sound 

Of  good,  so  counted  in  the  foregone  days. 
0  Dead,  ye  shall  no  longer  cling  to  us 

With  rigid  hands  of  desiccating  praise, 
And  drag  us  backward  by  the  garment  thus. 

To  stand  and  laud  you  in  long-drawn  virela^'s  ! 
We  will  not  hencefortli  be  oblivious 

Of  our  own  lives,  because  ye  lived  before, 
Nor  of  our  acts,  because  ye  acted  well. 

We  thank  you  that  ye  first  unlatched  the  door, 
But  will  not  make  it  inaccessible 

By  thankings  on  the  threshold  any  more. 
We  hurry  onward  to  extinguish  hell 

With  our  fresh  souls,  our  younger  hope,  and  God's 
Maturity  of  purpose.     Soon  shall  we 

Die  also  !  and,  that  then  our  periods 
Of  life  may  round  themselves  to  memory. 

As  smoothly  as  on  our  graves  the  burial-sods, 
We  now  must  look  to  it  to  excel  as  ye, 

And  bear  our  age  as  far,  unlimited 
B}'  the  last  mind-mavk!  so,  to  be  invoked 

By  future  generations,  as  their  Dead. 

'Tis  true  that  when  the  dust  of  death  has  choked 

A  great  man's  voice,  the  common  words  he  said 
Turn  oracles — the  common  thoughts  lie  3'oked 

Like  horses,  draw  like  griffins  ! — this  is  true 
And  acceptable.     I,  too,  should  desire, 

When    men    make   record,    with   the    flowers   they 
strew, 
"  Savonarola's  soul  went  out  in  fire 

Upon    our     Grand-duke's     piazza,*     and     burned 
through 
A  moment  first,  or  ere  he  did  expire, 

The  veil  betwixt  the  right  and  wrong,  and  sliowed 
How  near  God  sat  and  judged  the  judges  there" — ■ 

Upon  the  self-same  pavement  overstrewed, 
To  cast  my  violets  with  as  reverent  care, 

*  Savonarola  was  burat  for  his  testimonj'  against  papal  cor« 
ruptions  as  early  as  March,  1498 ;  and.  as  late  as  our  own  day,  it 
has  been  a  custom  in  Florence  to  strew  with  violets  the  pavemem 
trhere  he  suffered,  in  grateful  recognition  of  the  anniversary. 


CA8A     GUIDI     WINDOWS. 


And  prove  tlirit  all  the  winters  M'liich  have  snowed 
Cannot  snow  out  tlie  scent  from  stones  and  air, 

Of  a  sincere  man's  virtues.     This  was  he, 
Savonarola,  wlio,  wliile  Peter  sank 

With  liis  whole  boat-load,  called  courageously 
"  Wake  Christ,  wake  Christ!" — Who,  having  tried  the 
tank 

Of  old  church-waters  used  for  baptistry 
Ere  Luther  came  to  spill  them,  swore  they  stank! 

Who  also  by  a  princely  death-bed  cried, 
"  Loose  Florence,  or  God  will  not  loose  thy  soul !" 

Then  fell  back  the  Magnificent  and  died 
Beneath  the  star-look  shooting  from  the  cowl, 

Which  turned  to  wormwood  bitterness  the  wide 
Deep  sea  of  his  ambitions.     It  were  foul 

To  grudge  Savonarola  and  the  rest 
Their  violets  !  rather  pay  them  quick  and  fresh  ! 

The  emphasis  of  death  makes  manifest 
The  eloquence  of  action  in  our  flesh; 

And  men  who,  living,  were  but  dimly  guessed, 
When  once  free  from  their  life's  entangled  mesh, 

Show  their  full  length  in  graves,  or  oft  indeed 
Exaggerate  Lheir  stature,  in  the  flat, 

To  noble  admirations  which  exceed 
>[ost  nobly,  3'et  will  calculate  in  that 

But  accurately.     We,  who  are  the  seed 
Of  buried  creatures,  if  we  turned  and  spat 

Upon  our  antecedents,  we  were  vile. 
Bring  violets  rather!     If  these  had  not  walked 

Their  furlong,  could  we  hope  to  walk  our  mile  ? 
Therefore  bring  violets.     Yet  if  we,  self-baulked, 

Stand  still,  a-stre\^•4ng  violets  all  the  while. 
These  moved  in  vain,  of  whom  we  have  vainl^^  talked 

So  rise  up  henceforth  with  a  cheerful  smile. 
And  having  strewn  the  violets,  reap  the  corn, 

And  having  reaped  and  garnered,  bring  the  plow 
And  draw  new  furrows  'neatii  the  healthy  morn, 

And  plant  the  great  Hereafter  in  this  JS^ow. 
Of  old  'twas  so.     How  step  by  step  was  woi-n 

As  each  man  gained  on  each,  securely! — how 
Each  by  his  own  strength  sought  his  own  ideal — 

The  ultimate  Perfection  leaning  bright 
From  out  the  sun  and  stars,  to  bless  the  leal 

And  earnest  search  of  all  for  Fair  and  Bight, 
Through  doubtful  forms,  by  earth  accounted  real ' 

Because  old  Jubal  blew  into  deliirht 


40  CAS  A     GUIDI      WINDOWS. 

Thft  souls  of  men,  with  clear-piped  melodies, 

If  youthful  Asaph  were  content  at  most 
To  draw  from  Jnhal's  grave,  with  listening  eyes, 

Traditionary  music's  floating  ghost 
Into  the  grass-grown  silence,  were  it  wise  ? 

And  was't  not  wiser,  Juhal's  hreath  l)eing  lost. 
That  Miriam  clashed  her  cymhals  to  surprise 

The  sun  between  her  white  arms  flung  apart, 
"With  new,  glad,  golden  sounds?  that  David's  string: 

O'erflowed  his  hand  with  music  from  his  heart  ? 
So  harmony  grows  full  from  many  springs, 

And  hap[)3' accident  turns  holy  art. 

fou  enter,  in  3-our  Florence  wanderings, 

The  church  of  St.  Maria  Novella.     Pass 
Tue  left  stair,  where  at  plagne-time  Macchiavel* 

Saw  One  with  set  fair  face  as  in  a  glass, 
Dressed  out  against  tlie  fear  of  death  and  hell, 

Rustling  her  silks  in  pauses  of  tlie  mass, 
To  keep  the  thought  off  how  her  husband  fell, 

When  she  left  home,  stark  dead  across  her  feet — 
The  stair  leads  up  to  what  the  Orgagnas  save 

Of  Dante's  djemons  ;  you,  in  passing  it. 
Ascend  the  right  stair  from  the  farther  nave. 

To  muse  in  a  small  chapel  scarcely'  lit 
By  Cimabue's  Virgin.     Bright  and  brave. 

That  jjicture  was  accounted,  mark,  of  old. 
A  king  stood  bare  before  its  sovran  grace, f 

A  reverent  people  shouted  to  behold 
The  picture,  not  the  king,  and  even  the  place 

Containing  such  a  miracle,  grew  bold. 
Named  the  Glad  Borgo  from  that  lieauteous  face — 

Which  thrilled  the  artist,  after  work,  to  think 
Plis  own  ideal  Mar3'-smile  should  stand 

So  very  near  him — he,  within  the  brink 
Of  all  that  glory,  let  in  by  his  hand 

With  too  divine  a  jashness  !     Yet  none  shrink 
Who  come  to  gaze  here  now — albeit  'twas  planned 

Sublimeh^  in  the  thought's  simplicity. 
The  Lady,  throned  in  empyreal  state. 


*  See  bis  description  of  the  plague  in  Florence. 

f  Charles  of  Anjou.  in  his  passage  through  Florence,  was  per- 
mitted to  see  this  picture  while  yet  in  Cimabue's  "  bottega."  The 
populace  followed  the  royal  visitor,  and,  from  the  universal  de- 
light and  admiration,  the  quarter  of  the  city  in  which  the  artist 
lived  was  called  "  Borgo  Allegri."  The  picture  was  carried  ia 
triumjih  to  the  church,  and  deposited  there. 


CASA      GUIDI      WINDOWS. 

Minds  only  the  young  babe  upon  her  knoe. 
While  sidelong  angels  bear  the  ro\-al  weight, 

Prostrated  meekly,  smiling  tenderly' 
Oblivion  of  their  wings  ;  the  Oliild  thereat 

Stretehing  its  hand  like  God.      If  any  should, 
Because  of  some  stitf  draperies  and  loose  joints, 

Gaze  scorn  down  from  the  heiglits  of  Katlaelhood, 
On  Cimabue's  picture — Heaven  anoints 

The  head  of  no  such  critic,  and  his  blood 
The  })oet's  curse  strikes  full  on  and  appoints 

To  ague  and  cold  spasms  for  evermore. 
A  noble  picture  !  worthy  of  the  shout 

Wherewith  along  the  streets  the  people  bore 
Its  cherub  faces,  which  the  sun  threw  out 

Until  the}'^  stooped  and  entered  the  church  door.'— t 
Yet  rightly  was  young  Giotto  talked  about, 

Whom  Cimabue  found  among  the  sheep,* 
And  knew,  as  gods  know  gods,  and  carried  home 

To  paint  the  things  he  had  painted,  with  a  deep 
And  fuller  insight,  and  so  overcome 

His  chapel-lady  with  a  heavenlier  sweep 
Of  light.     For  thus  we  mount  into  the  sum 

Of  great  things  known  or  acted.     I  hold,  too. 
That  Cimabue  smiled  upon  the  lad, 

At  the  first  stroke  which  passed  what  could  he  do, 
Or  else  his  Virgin's  smile  had  never  had 

Such  sweetness  in't.     All  great  men  who  foreknew 
Their  heirs  in  art,  for  art's  sake  have  been  glad. 

And  bent  their  old  white  heads  as  if  uncrowned. 
Fanatics  of  their  pure  ideals  still  ^ 

Far  more  than  of  their  triumphs,  which  were  found 
With  some  less  vehement  struggle  of  the  will. 

If  old  Margheritone  ti'embled,  swooned, 
And  died  despairing  at  the  open  sill 

Of  other  men's  achievements,  (who  achieved. 
By  loving  art  lieyond  the  master  !)  lie 

Was  old  Margheritone,  and  conceived 
Xever,  at  first  30uth  and  most  ecstasy, 

A  Virgin  like  that  dream  of  one,  which  heaved 
The  death-sigh  from  his  heart.     If  wistfully 

Margheritone  sickened  at  the  smell 
Of  Cimabue's  laurel,  let  him^go  ! — 

•  How  Cimabue  found  Giotto,  the  shepherd-boy,  sketching  a 
nra  of  his  flock  upon  a  stone,  is  prettilj-  told  by  Vasari — who 
also  relates  that  the  cider  artist  Margheritone  died  "  iafastidito" 
of  the  successes  of  the  new  school. 


48  OASA     GUIDI     WINDOWS. 

For  Cimabue  stood  np  A^ery  well 
In  spite  of  Giotto's — and  Angelico, 

Tlie  artist-saint,  kept  smiling  in  his  cell 
The  smile  with  which  he  welcomed  the  sweet,  slow 

Inbreak  of  angels,  (whitening  through  the  dim 
That  he  might  paint  them  !)  wliile  the  sudden  sense 

Of  Kaffael's  future  was  revealed  to  him 
By  force  of  his  own  fair  works'  competence. 

The  same  blue  waters  where  the  dolphins  swim 
Suggest  the  tritons.     Through  the  blue  Immense, 

Strike  out,  all  swimmers  !  cling  not  in  tiie  way 
Of  one  another,  so  to  sink  ;  but  learn 

The    strong   man's   impulse,   catch    the    fresh'ning 
spray 
He  throws  up  in  his  motions,  and  discern 

By  his  clear,  westering  eye,  the  time  of  day. 
Thou,  God,  hast  set  us  worth}^  gifts  to  earn. 

Besides  thy  l)eaven  and  Thee!  and  when  I  say 
There's  room  here  for  the  weakest  man  alive 

To  live  and  die — there's  room  too,  I  repeat, 
For  all  the  strongest  to  live  well,  and  strive 

Their  own  way,  by  their  individual  heat — 
Like  some  new  bee-swarm  leaving  the  old  hive. 

Despite  the  wax  which  tempts  so  violet-sweet. 
Then  let  the  living  live,  the  dead  retain 

Their  grave-cold  flowers  ! — though  honor's  best  sup- 
plied. 
By  bringing  actions,  to  prove  theirs  not  vain. 

Cold  graves,  we  sa3^  ?  it  shall  be  testified 
That  living  men  w'ho  burn  in  heart  and  brain. 

Without  the  dead,  were  colder.     If  we  tried 
To  sink  the  past  beneath  our  feet,  be  sure 

The  future  would  not  stand.     Precipitate 
This  old  roof  from  the  shrine — and,  insecure, 

The  nesting  swallows  fly  oflT,  mate  from  mate. 
How  scant  the  gardens,  if  the  graves  were  fewer  ! 

The  tall  green  poplars  grew  no  longer  straight. 
Whose  tops  not  looked  to  Troy.     Would  any  fight 

For  Athens,  and  not  swear  by  Marathon  ? 
Who  dared  build  temples,  without  tombs  in  sight  ? 

Or  live,  without  some  dead  man's  benison  ? 
Or  seek  truth,  hope  for  good,  and  strive  for  right, 

If,  looking  np,  he  saw  not  in  the  sun 
Some  angel  of  the  martyrs  all  day   long 

Standing  and  waiting  ?    Your  last  rliythm  will  need 
Your  earliest  key-note.     Could  I  sing  this  song, 


CASA     OUIDI     WINDOWS.  45 

If  my  (lead  mfisters  had  not  taken  heed 
T.)  help  the  heavens  and  earth  to  make  me  strong, 

As  the  wind  ever  will  find  ont  some  reed, 
And  touch  it  to  such  issues  as  belonj^ 

To  such  a  frail  thing  ?     None  may  grudge  tlie  dead 
Libations  from  full  cups.     Unless  we  choose 

To  look  back  to  the  hills  behind  us  spread, 
The  plains  before  us,  sadden  and  confuse  ; 

If  orphaned,  we  are  disinherited. 

I  would  but  turn  these  lachrymals  to  use, 

And  pour  fresh  oil  in  from  the  olive  grove. 
To  furnish  them  as  new  lamps.     Shall  I  say 

What  made  my  heart  beat  with  exulting  love, 
A  few  weeks  back  ? — 

....  The  da}^  was  such  a  day 

As  Florence  owes  the  sun.     The  sk3'-  above. 
Its  weight  upon  the  mountains  seemed  to  lay, 

And  palpitate  in  glor}^  like  a  dove 
Who  has  flown  too  fast,  full  hearted  ! — take  away 

The  image  !  for  the  heai't  of  man  beat  higher 
That  day  in  Florence,  flooding  all  her  streets 

And  piazzas  with  a  tumult  and  desire. 
The  people,  with  accumulated  heats, 

And  i'aces  turned  one  way,  as  if  one  fire 
Both  drew  and  flushed  them,  left  their  ancient  beats. 

And  went  up  toward  the  palaco-Pitti  wall, 
To  thank  their   Grand-duke,  who,  not  quite  of  course, 

Had  graciously'  permitted,  at  their  call. 
The  cilizeiis  to  use  their  civic  foi'ce 

To  guard  their  civic  homes.     So,  one  and  all, 
The  Tuscan  cities  streamed  up  to  the  source 

Of  this  new  good,  at  Florence,  taking  it 
As  good  so  far,  presageful  of  more  good — 

The  first  torch  of  Italian  freedom,  lit 
To  toss  in  the  next  tiger's  face  who  should 

Api>roach  too  near  them  in  a  greedj^  fit — 
The  first  pulse  of  an  even  flow  of  blood. 

To  i)rove  the  level  of  Italian  veins 
Toward  rights  perceived  and  granted.     How  we  gazed 

From  Casa  Guidi  windows,  while,  in  trains 
Ot  orderly  procession — banners  raised. 

And  intermittent  bursts  of  martial  strains  ! 

Which  died  upon  the  shout,  as  if  amazed 

By  gladness  beyond  music — they  passed  on  ! 
The  ]\Iagistrac3^,  with  insignia,   i)assed — 

And  all  the  people  shouted  in  the  sun, 


50  CASA     GUIDI     WlNTiOWs. 

And  all  the  thousand  windows  which  had  cast 

A  ripple  of  silks,  in  blue  and  scarlet,  down, 
(As  if  the  houses  overflowed  at  last,) 

Seemed  growing  larger  with  fair  heads  and  eyes. 
The  Lawyers  passed — and  still  arose  the  shont, 

And  hands  broke  from  the  windows  to  surprise 
Those  grave  calm  brows  with  bay-tree  leaves  thrown 
out. 

The  Priesthood  passed,  the  friars  with  worldly-wise 
Keen  sidelong  glances  from  their  beards  about 

The  street  to  see  who  shouted  !  many  a  monk 
Who  takes  a  long  rope  in  the  Avaist,  was  there  ! 

Whereat  the  popular  exultation  drunk 
With  indrawn  "  vivas  "  the  whole  sunny  air, 

While,  through  the  murmuring  windows,  rose  and 
sunk 
A  cloud   of  kerchiefed   hands — "  The    church  makes 
fair 

Her  welcome  in  the  new  Pope's  name."     Ensued 
The  black  sign  of  the  "  Martyrs  !"  (name  no  name, 

But    count    the    graves    in    silence.)     Next,   were 
viewed 
The  Artists ;  next,  the  Trades,  and  after  came 

The  People — flag  and  sign,  and  rights  as  good — 
And  very  loud  the  shout  was  for  that  same 

Motto,  "II  popolo."     Il  Popolo— 
The  word  means  dukedom,  empire,  majesty, 

And  kings  in  such  an  hour  might  read  it  so. 
And  next,  with  banners  each  in  his  degree, 

Deputed  representatives  a-row 
Of  ever}'  separate  state  of  Tuscany. 

Siena's  she  wolf,  bristling  on  the  fold 
Of  the  first  flag,  preceded  Pisa's  hare, 

And  Massa's  lion  floated  calm  in  gold, 
Pieuza's  following  with  his  silver  stare. 

Arezzo's  steed  pranced  clear  from  bridle-hold — 
And  well  might  shout  our  Florence,  greeting  there 

These,  and  more   brethren.     Last,    the  world   had 
sent 
The  various  children  of  her  teeming  flanks — 

Greeks,  English,  French — as  if  to  a  parliament 
Of  lovers  of  her  Italy  in  ranks, 

Each  bearing  its  land's  symbol  reverent. 
At  which  the  stones  seemed  breaking  into  thanks 

And  rattling  up  the  sky,  such  sounds  in  proof 
Arose  ;  the  very  house-walls  seemed  to  bend ; 


CAS  A     GUIDI     WINDOWS.  5  J 

The  very  windows,  up  from  door  to  roof, 
Flashed  out  a  rapture  of  bright  heads,  to  mend 

Witli  passionate  looks,  the  gesture's  whirling  off 
A  hurricane  of  leaves.     Three  hours  did  end 

AYhile  all  these  passed  ;  and  ever  in  the  crowd, 
Rude  men,  unconscious  of  the  tears  that  kept 

Their    beartls    moist,  shouted ;   some    few   laughed 
aloud, 
And  none  asked  an}'  why  they  laughed  and  wept. 

Friends  kissed  each  other's  cheeks,  and  foes  long 
vowed 
More  warmly  did  it — two  months'  babies  leapt 

Right  upward  in  their  mothers'  arms,  whose  black. 
Wide,  glittering  eyes  looked  elsewhere  ;  lovers  pressed 

Each  before  either,  neither  glancing  back  ; 
And  peasant  maidens,  smoothly  'tired  and  tressed, 

Forgot  to  finger  on  their  throats  the  slack 
Great  pearl-strings  ;  while  old  blind  men  w-ould  not 
rest, 

But  pattered  with  their  staves  and  slid  their  shoes 
Along  the  stones,  and  smiled  as  if  they  saw. 

0  heaven.  I  think  that  day  had  noble  use 
Among  God's  days.     So  near  stood  Right  and  Law, 

Both  mutuall}'  forborne  !     Law  would  not  bruise, 
Nor  Right  deny,  and  each  in  reverent  awe 

Honored  the  other.     And  if,  ne'ertheless, 
That  good  day's  sun  delivered  to  the  vines 

No  charta,  and  the  liberal  Duke's  excess 
Did  scarce  exceed  a  Guelf's  or  Ghibellne's 

In  any  special  actual  righteousness 
Of  what  that  day  he  granted,  still  the  signs 

Are  good  and  full  of  promise,  we  must  say. 
When  multitudes  approach  their  kings  with  i^rayers, 

And  kings  concede  their  people's  right  to  pray, 
Both  in  one  sunshine.     Griefs  are  not  despaiis. 

So  uttered,  nor  can  ro^'al  claims  dismay 
When  men  from  humble  homes  and  ducal  chairs, 

Hate  wrong  together.     It  was  Avell  to  view 
Those  banners  ruffled  in  a  ruler's  face 

Inscribed,  "  Live  freedom,  union,  and  all  true 
Brave  patriots  who  are  aided  by  God's  grace!" 

Nor  was  it  ill  when  Leopoldo  drew 
His  little  children  to  the  window-place 

He  stood  in  at  the  Pitti,  to  suggest 
Tliey  too  should  govern  as  the  people  willed. 

What  a  cry  rose  then  !  some,  who  saw  the  best, 


52  C  A  S  A      G  U  I  D  1      WINDOWS. 

Declared  his  eyes  filled  up  and  overfilled 

"With  good  warm  hunuiii  tears  which  uii repressed 
Ran  down.     I  like  his  face  ;  the  forehead's  build 

Has  no  capacious  genius,  yet  perhaps 
iSuHicient  comprehension — mild  and  sad, 

And  care  fid  nol)ly — not  with  care  that  wraps 
Self-loving  hearts,  to  stifle  and  make  mad, 

But  careful  with  the  care  that  shuns  a  lapse 
Of  faith  and  duty,  studious  not  to  add 

A  burden  in  the  gathering  of  a  gain. 
And  so,  God  save  the  Duke,  I  say  with  those 

Who  that  day  sliouted  it,  and  while  dukes  reign, 
May  all  wear  in  the  visible  overflows 

Of  spirit,  such  a  look  of  careful  pain  ! 
For  God  must  love  it  better  than  repose 

And  all  the  people  who  went  up  to  let 

Their  hearts  out  to  that  Duke,  as  has  been  told — 
Where  guess  ye  that  the  living  people  met. 

Kept  tryst,  formed  ranks,  chose   leaders,  first  un 
rolled 
Their  banners  ? 

In  the  Loggia  ?  where  is  set 

Sellini's  godlike  Perseus,  Ijronze — or  gold — 
How  name  the  metal,  when  the  statue  flings 

Its  soul  so  in  3'our  eyes  ?)  with  brow  and  sword 
Superbly  calm,  as  all  opposing  things. 

Slain  with  the  Gorgon,  were  no  more  abhorred 
Since  ended  ? 

Xo,  the  people  sought  no  wings 

From  Perseus  in  the  Loggia,  nor  implored 
An  inspiration  in  the  place  beside. 

From  that  dim  bust  of  Brutus,  jagged  and  grand. 
Where  Buonarroti  passionately  tried 

From  out  the  close-clenched  marble  to  demand 
The  head  of  Rome's  sublimest  homicide — 

Then  dropt  the  quivering  mallet  from  his  hand. 
Despairing  he  could  find  no  model-stutf 

Of  Brutus,  in  all  Florence,  where  he  found 
The  gods  and  gladiators  thick  enough. 

Nor  there  !  the  people  chose  still  holier  ground  I 
The  people,  who  are  simple,  blind,  and  rough. 

Know  their  own  angels,  after  looking  round. 
Whom  chose  they  then?  where  met  they  ? 

On  the  stone 
Called  Dante's — a  plain  flat  stone,  scarce  discerned 


CASA     GUIDI     WINDOWS.  53 

From  others  in  the  pavement — whereupon 

He  used  to  bring  his  quiet  chair  out,  turned 
To  Brunclleschi's  church,  and  pour  alone 

The  lara  of  his  spirit  when  it  burned. 
It  is  not  cold  to-day.     0  passionate 

Poor  Dante,  who,  a  banished  Florentine, 
D.dst  sit  austere  at  banquets  of  the  great, 

And  muse  upon  this  far-olf  stone  of  tiiine. 
And  think  how  oft  some  passer  used  to  wait 

A  moment,  in  the  golden  day's  decline, 
With    "  Good-night,    dearest    Dante  I" — well,    good* 
night ! 

/  muse  now,  Dante,  and  think,  verily, 
Though  chapelled  in  the  bywa_y,  out  of  sight, 

Ravenna's  bones  would  thrill  with  ecstasy, 
Could'st  know  thy  favorite  stone's  elected  right 

As  tryst-place  for  thy  Tuscans  to  foresee 
Their  earliest  chartas  from.     Good  night,  good  morn, 

Henceforward,  Dante!  now  ray  soul  is  sure 
Tl;at  thine  is  better  comforted  of  scorn, 

xVnd  looks  down  earthward  in  completer  cure, 
Than  when  in  Santa  Croce  church  forlorn 

Of  any  corpse,  the  architect  and  hewer 
Did  pile  the  empty  marbles  as  thy  tomb.* 

For  now  thou  art  no  longer  exiled,  now 
Best  honored  ! — we  salute  thee  who  art  come 

Back  to  the  old  stone  with  a  softer  brow 
Than  Giotto  drew  upon  the  wall,  for  some 

Good  lovers  of  our  age  to  track  and  plow  f 
Their  way  to,  through  time's  ordures  stratified. 

And  startle  broad  awake  into  the  dull 
Bargello  chamber  !  now,  thou'rt  milder  e3'ed — 

'Sow  Beatrix  may  leap  u[)  glad  to  cull 
Thy  first  smile,  even  in  heaven  and  at  her  side, 

Like  that  which,  nine  years  old,  looked  beautiful 
At  Ma\'-garae.     What  do  I  say  ?  I  only  meant 

That  tender  Dante  loved  his  Florence  well. 
While  Florence,  now,  to  love  him  i<s  content ; 

And,  mark  3^e,  that  the  piercingest  sweet  swell 
Of  love's  dear  incense  bj'  the  living  sent 

To  find  the  dead,  is  not  accessible 

*  The  Florentines,  to  whom  the  Ravennese  refused  the  Body  of 
Dante,  (demanded  of  them  "in  a  late  remorse  of  love")  have 
given  a  cenotaph  in  this  church  to  their  divine  poet.  Something 
\ess  than  a  grave. 

fin  allusion  to  Mr.  Kirkup's  discovery  of  Giotto's  fresco-por- 
trait of  Dante. 


54  C  A  S  A      G  U  I  D  I     WINDOWS, 

To  laz}'  livers  !  no  narcotic — not 

Swung  in  a  censer  to  a  sleepy  tune — - 
But  trod  out  in  the  morning  air,  by  hot 

Quick  spirits,  who  tread  firm  to  ends  foreshown. 
And  use  the  name  of  greatness  nn forgot, 

To  meditate  when  greatness  may  be  done. 

For  Dante  sits  in  heaven,  anil  ye  stand  here, 

And  more  remains  for  doing,  all  must  feel, 
Than  trystiug  on  his  stone  from  year  to  year 

To  shift  processions,  civic  toe  to  heel. 
The  town's  thanks  to  the  Pitti.     Are  3'e  freer 

For  what  was  felt  that  day  ?  a  chariot-wheel 
May  spin  fast,  yet  the  chariot  never  roll. 

But  if  that  da3^  suggested  something  good, 
A-iid  bettered,  with  one  purpose,  soul  b}-  soul — 

Better  means  freer.     A  land's  brotherhood 
Is  most  puissant :  men,  upon  the  whole. 

Are  what  the}-  can  be — nations,  what  they  would. 

Will,  therefore,  to  be  strong,  tliou  Italy  I 

Will  to  be  noble  !     Austrian   Metternich 
Can  fix  no  yoke  unless  the  neck  agree  ; 

And  thine  is  like  the  lion's  when  the  thick 
Dews  shudder  from  it,  and  no  man  would  be 

The  stroker  of  his  mane,  much  less  would  prick 
His  nostril  with  a  reed.     When  nations  roar 

Like  lions,  who  shall  tame  them,  and  delVaud 
Of  the  due  pasture  by  the  river-shore  ? 

Roar,  therefore  !  shake  your  dew-la[)S  dry  abroad^ 
The  amphitheatre  with  open  door 

Leads  back  upon  the  benches,  who  applaud 
The  last  spear-thruster. 

Yet  the  Heavens  forbid 

That  we  should  call  on  passion  to  confront 
The  brutal  with  the  brutal,  and,  amid 

This  ripening  world,  suggests  a  lion's  hunt 
And  lion's  vengeance  for  the  wrongs  men  did 

And  do  now,  though  the  spears  are  getting  blunt, 
We  only  call,  because  the  sight  and  proof 

Of  lion-strength  hurts  nothing;  and   to  show 
A  lion  heart,  and  measure  jiaw  with  hoof. 

Helps  something,  even,  and  will  instruct  a  foe 
As  well  as  the  onslaught,  how  to  stand  aloof! 

Or  else  the  world  gets  past  the  mere  brute  blo^ 
Or  given  or  taken.      Children  use  the  fist 

TJutil  they  are  of  age  to  use  the  brain; 


CA8A     aUIDI     WINDOWS.  55 

And  so  VYe  needed  Cnesars  to  assist 

Man's  justice,  and  Napoleons  to  explain 
God's  counsel,  -when  a  point  was  nearl}'  missed, 

Until  our  generations  should  attain 
Christ's  stature  nearer.     Not  that  we,  alas, 

Attain  already  ;  but  a  single  inch 
Will  raise  to  look  down  on  the  swordsman's  pass, 

As  knightly  Roland  on  the  coward's  flinch; 
And,  after  chloroform  and  ether  gas, 

We  find  out  slowly  what  the  bee  and  finch 
Have  ready  found,  tlirough  Nature's  lamp  in  each, 

How  to  our  races  we  may  justifj^ 
Our  individual  claims,  and,  as  we  reach 

Our  own  grapes,  bend  the  top  vines  to  supply' 
The  children's  uses — how  to  fill  a  breach 

AVith  olive  branches — how  to  quench  a  lie 
With  truth,  and  smite  a  foe  upon  the  cheek 

With  Christ's  most  conquering  kiss.    Wh^^,  these  are 
things  • 
Worth  a  great  nation's  finding,  to  prove  weak 

The  "glorious  arms  "  of  military  kings. 
And  so  with  wide  embrace,  my  England,  seek 

To  stifle  the  bad  heat  and  flickerings 
Of  this  world's  false  and  nearly  expended  fire  ! 

Draw  palpitating  arrows  to  the  wood, 
And  twang  abroad  thy  high  hopes,  and  th}'  higher 

Resolves,  from  tiiat  most  virtuous  altitude  ! 
Till  nations  shall  unconsciously  aspire 

B}-  looking  up  to  thee,  and  learn  that  good 
And  glory  are  not  difterent.     Announce  law 

B}^  freedom  ;  exalt  chivalry  b}'^  peace  ; 
Instruct  how  clear  calm  e3'es  can  overawe, 

And  how  pure  hands,  stretched  simpl}'  to  release 
A  bond-slave,  will  not  need  a  sword  to  draw- 
To  be  held  dreadful.     0  my  England,  crease 
Thy  purple  with  no  alien  agonies  ! 

No  struggles  toward  encroachment,  no  vile  warj 
Disband  thy  captains,  change  thy  victories. 

Be  henceforth  prosperous  as  the  angels  are, 
Helping,  not  humbling. 

Drums  and  battle  cries 
Go  out  in  music  of  the  morning  star — 

And  soon  we  shall  have  thinkers  in  the  place 
Of  fighters,  each  found  able  as  a  man 

To  strike  electric  influence  tlirough  a  race, 
Unstayed  by  city-wall  and  barbican 


56  CASAGUIDT     WINDOWS. 

The  poet  shall  look  grander  in  the  face 

Than  even  of  old,  (when  he  of  Greece  began 

To  sing  "  that  Achillean  wratli  which  slew- 
So  raan3^  heroes,") — seeing  he  shall  treat 

The  deeds  of  souls  heroic  toward  the  true— _ 
The  oracles  of  life — previsions  sweet 

And  awful,  like  divine  swans  gliding  through 
White  arms  of  Ledas,  which  will  leave  the  heat 

Of  their  escaping  godship  to  endue 

The  human  medium  with  a  heavenly  flush. 

Meanwhile,  in  this  same  Italy  we  want 

Not  popular  passion,  to  arise  and  crush. 
But  popular  conscience,  which  may  covenant 

For  what  it  knows.     Concede  without  a  blush, 
To  grant  the  "civic  guard"  is  not  to  grant 

The  ciTic  spirit,  living  and  awake. 
Those  lappets  on  your  shoulders,  citizens, 

Your  eyes  strain  after  sideways  till  they  ache, 
(While  still,  in  admirations  and  amens. 

The  crowd  comes  up  on  festa-days,  to  take 
The  great  sight  in) — are  not  intelligence, 

Not  courage  even — alas,  if  not  the  sign 
Of  something  very  noble,  they  are  naught; 

For  every  day  ye  dress  your  sallow  kine 
With  fringes  down  their  cheeks,  though  unbesought 

They  loll  their  heavy  heads  and  drag  the  wine, 
And  bear  the  wooden  yoke  as  they  were  taught 

The  flrst  day.     What  ye  want  is  light — indeed 
Not  sunlight— (ye  may  well  look  up  surprised 

To  those  unfathomable  heavens  that  feed 
Your  purple  hills!)— but  God's  liglit  organized 

In  some  high  soul,  crowned  capable  to  lead 
The  conscious  people,  conscious  and  advised — 

For  if  we  lift  a  people  like  mere  clay, 
It  falls  the  same.      We  want  thee,  0  unfound 

And  sovran  teacher  !— if  thy  beard  be  gray 
Or  black,  we  bid  thee  rise  up  from  the  ground 

And  speak  the  word  God  giveth  thee  to  saj^ 
Inspiring  into  all  this  people  round. 

Instead  of  passion,  thought,  whicli  pioneers 
A.11  generous  passion,  purifies  from  sin. 

And  strikes  the  hour  for.     Ilise  up  teacher!  here's 
A  crowd  to  make  a  nation  ! — best  begin 

By  making  each  a  man,  till  all  be  peers  ^ 
Of  earth's  true  patriots  and  pure  martyrs  in 
41* 


CAS  A      GUIDI     WINDOWS.  57 

Knowing  and  daring.     Best  unbar  the  doors 
Which  Peter's  heirs  keep  locked  so  overdose 

They  only  let  the  mice  across  the  floors, 
While  every  cluircliman  dangles,  as  he  goes, 

The  great  key  at  his  girdle,  and  abhors 
In  Christ's  nanie,  meekly.     Open  wide  the  house, 

Concede  the  entrance  with  Christ's  liberal  mind. 
And  set  the  tables  with  His  wine  and  bread. 

What!    "commune    in    both    kinds?"      In    everj 
kind — 
Wine,  wafer,  love,  hope,  truth,  unlimited, 

Nothing  kept  back.     For  when  a  man  is  blind 
To  starlight,  will  lie  sec  the  rose  is  red  ? 

A  bondsman  shivering  at  a  Jesuit's  foot — 
"  Vffi!  mea  culpa  !"  is  not  like  to  stand 

A  freedman  at  a  despot's,  and  dispute 
His  titles  by  the  balance  in  his  hand. 

Weighing  them  "sno  jure."     Tend  the  loot 
If  careful  of  the  branches,  and  expand 

The  inner  souls  of  men  before  you  strive 
For  civic  heroes. 

But  the  teacher,  where? 

From  all  these  crowded  faces,  all  alive, 
Eyes,  of  their  own  lids  flashing  themselves  bare, 

And  brows  that  with  a  mobile  life  contrive 
A  deeper  shadow — may  we  in  no  wise  dare 

To  put  a  finger  out,  and  touch  a  man. 
And  cry  "  this  is  the  leader  ?"     What,  all  these  ! — 

Broad  lieads,  black  eyes — yet  not  a  soul  that  ran 
From  God  down  with  a  message  ?  all,  to  please 

The  donna  waving  measures  with  her  fan, 
And  not  the  judgment-angel  on  his  knees, 

(The  trumpet  just  an  inch  off"  from  his  lips) 
Who,  when  he  breathes  next,  will  put  out  the  sun  ? 

Yet  mankind's  self  were  foundered  in  eclipse. 
If  lacking  doers,  with  great  works  to  be  done  : 

And  lo',  the  startled  earth  already  dips 
Back  into  light— a  better  day's  begun — 

And  soon  this  leader,  teachor,  will  stand  plain, 
And  build  the  golden  pipes  and  synthesize 

This  people-organ  for  a  holy  strain. 
W'e  hold  this  hope,  and  still  in  all  these  eyes. 

Go  sounding  for  the  deep  look  which  shall  drain 
Suff'used  thought  into  channelled  enterprise. 

Where  is  the  teacher?     What  now  may  he  do, 
Who  shall  do  greatly?     Doth  he  gird  bis  waist 


58  CASA     GUIDI     WINDOWS. 

"With  a  monk's  rope,  like  Luther  ?  or  pursue 
The  goat,  like  Tell  ?  or  dry  his  nets  in  haste, 

Like  Masaniello  when  the  sky  was  blue? 
Keep  house,  like  other  peasant's,  with  iiilaced. 

Bare,  brawny  arms  about  a  favorite  child, 
And  meditative  looks  beyond  the  door, 

(But  not  to  mark  the  kidling's  teeth  have  filed 
The  green  shoots  of  his  vine  which  last  year  bore 

Full  twenty  bunches,)  or,  on  triple-piled 
Throne-velvets  sit  at  ease,  to  bless  the  poor. 

Like  other  pontiff's,  in  the  Poorest's  name  ? 
The  old  tiara  keeps  itself  aslope 

Upon  his  steady  brows,  which,  all  the  same, 
Bend  mildly  to  permit  the  people's  hope  ? 

Whatever  hand  shall  grasp  this  oriflamme, 
Whatever  man  (last  peasant  or  first  pope 
I      Seeking  to  free  his  country  !)  shall  appear, 
I'Teach,  lead,  strike  fire  into  the  masses,  till 

These  empty  bladders  with  fine  air,  insphere 
These  wMlls  into  a  unity  of  will,    ' 

And  make  of  Italy  a  nation — dear 
And  blessed  be  tliat  man  !  the  Heavens  shall  kill 

No  leaf  the  earth  lets  grow  for  him,  and  Death 
Shall  cast  hira  back  upon  the  lap  of  Life 

To  live  more  sureh",  in  a  clarion-breath 
Of  hero-music.     Brutus,  with  the  knife, 

Rienzi,  with  the  fasces,  trod  beneath 
Rome's  stones — and  more — who  threw  away  joy's  fife 

Like  Pallas,  that  the  beauty  of  their  souls' 
Might  ever  shine  untroubled  and  entire. 

But  if  it  can  be  true  that  he  who  rolls 
The  Church's  thunders,  will  reserve  her  fire 

For  only  light — from  eucharistic  bowls 
Will  pour  new  life  for  nations  that  expire, 

And  rend  the  scarlet  of  his  papal  vest 
To  gird  the  weak  loins  of  his  countrymen — 

I  hold  that  he  surpasses  all  the  rest 
Of  Romans,  heroes,  patriots — and  that  when 

He  sat  down  on  the  throne,  he  dispossessed 
The  first  graves  of  some  glory.     See  again. 

Tins  country-saving  is  a  glorious  thing. 
And  if  a  common  man  achieved  it  ?  well. 

Say,  a  rich  man  did?  excellent.     A  king? 
That  grows  sublime.     A  priest  ?  improbable. 

A  pope  ?     Ah,  there  we  stop,  and  cannot  bring 
Our  faith  up  to  the  leap,  with  history's  bell 


CASA     GUIDI     WINDOWS. 

So  heavy  round  llie  neck  of  it — albeit 
We  fain  would  grant  the  possibility, 
For  tliy  sake,  Pio  Xono  ? 

Stretch  thy  feet 
In  that  case — I  will  kiss  them  reverently 

As  an}^  pilgrim  to  the  pai)al  seat ! 
And,  such  proved  possible,  thy  throne  to  me 

Shall  seem  as  holy  a  place  as   Pellico's 
Venetian  dungeon,  or  as  Spielberg's  grate, 

At  which  the  Lombard  woman  hung  the  rose 
Of  her  sweet  soul,  by  its  own  dewy  weight. 

To  feel  the  dungeon  round  her  sunshine  close, 
And  pining  so,  died  early,  yet  too  late 

For  what  she  suffered.     Yea,  I  will  not  choose 
Betwixt  thy  throne.  Pope  Pius,  and  the  spot 

Marked  red  for  ever,  spite  of  rains  and  dews. 
Where  two  fell  riddled  by  the  Austrian's  shot, 

Tiie  brothers  Bandiera,  who  accuse. 
With  one  same  mother-voice  and  f^ice  (that  what 

They  speak  may  be  invincible)  the  sins 
Of  earth's  tormentors  before  God  the  just, 

Until  the  unconscious  thunder-bolt  begins 
To  loosen  in  His  grasp. 

And  yet  we  must 

Beware,  and  mark  the  natural  kiths  and  kins 
Of  circumstance  and  office,  and  distrust 

The  rich  man  reasoning  in  a  poor  man's  hut. 
The  poet  who  neglects  pure  truth  to  prove 

Statistic  fact,  the  child  who  leaves  a  rut 
For  a  smoother  road,  the  priest  who  vows  his  glove 

Exhales  no  grace,  the  prince  who  walks  a-foot, 
The  woman  who  has  sworn  she  will  not  love. 

And  this  Ninth  Pius  in  Seventh  Gregory's  chair, 
With  Andrea  Doria's  forehead  ! 

Count  what  goes 

To  make  up  a  pope,  before   he  wear 
That  triple  crown.     We  pass  the  world-wide  throes 

Which  went  to  make  the  popedom — the  despair 
Of  free  men,  good  men,  wise  men  ;  the  dread  shows 

Of  women's  faces,  by  the  faggot's  flash. 
Tossed  out,  to  the  minutest  stir  and  throb 

0'  the  white  lips,  the  least  tremble  of  a  lash, 
To  glut  the  red  stare  of  a  licensed  mob ; 

The  short  mad  cries  down  oubliettes,  and  plash 
So  horribly  far  off;  priests,  trained  to  rob, 


5S 


00  CASAGUIDI     WINDOWS. 

And  kings  that,  like  encouraged  nightmares,  sat 
On  nations'  hearts  most  lieavily  distressed 

With  monstrous  sights  and  apophthegms  of  fate  ! — 
We  pass  these  things — because  "  the  times  "  are  prest 

With  necessary  charges  of  the  weight 
Of  all  this  sin,  and  "  Calvin,  for  the  rest, 

Made  bold  to  burn  Servetus — Ah,  men  err  1  " 
And,  so  do  churches!  which  is  all  we  mean 

To  bring  to  proof  in  any  register 
Of  theological  fat  kine  and  lean — 

So  drive  tliem  back  into  the  pens  !  refer 
Old  sins  (with  pourpoint,  "  quotha  "  and  "  I  ween,") 

Entirely  to  the  okl  times,  the  old  times ; 
Nor  ever  ask  why  this  preponderant, 

Infallible,  pure  Cliurch  could  set  lier  chimes 
Most  loudly  then,  just  then — most  jubilant, 

Precisely  then — when  mankind  stood  in  crimes 
Full  heart-deep,  and    Heaven's   judgments  were  not 
scant. 

Inquire  still  less,  what  signifies  a  cliurch 
Of  perfect  inspiration  and  pure  laws, 

Who  burns  the  first  man  with  a  brimstone-torch, 
And  grinds  the  second,  bone  by  bone,  because 

The  times,  forsooth,  are  used  to  rack  and  scorch  ! 
What  i.s  a  holy  Church  unless  she  awes 

The  times  down  from  their  sins  ?    Did  Christ  select 
Such  amiable  times,  to  come  and  teacli 

Love    to,    and    naercy  ?     The    whole    world     were 
wrecked. 
If  every  mere  great  man,  who  lives  to  reach 

A  little  leaf  of  popular  respect. 
Attained  not  simply  by  some  special  breach 

In  the  age's  customs,  by  some  precedence 
In  thought  and  act,  which,  having  proved  him  highei 

Than  those  he  lived  with,  proved  his  competence 
In  helping  them  to  w^onderand  aspire. 

My  words  are  guiltless  of  the  bigot's  sense. 
My  soul  has  fire  to  mingle  with  the  fire 

Of  all  these  souls,  within  or  out  of  doors 
Of  Rome's  church  or  another.     I  believe 

In  one  Priest,  and  one  temple,  with  its  floors 
Of  shining  jasper  gloom'd  at  morn  and  eve 

By  countless  knees  of  earnest  auditors, 
And  crystal  walls,  too  lucid  to  perceive. 

That  none  may  take  the  measure  of  the  place 
And  say,  "  So  far  the  porphyry,  then,  the  flint— 


CASA     GJIDI      WINDOWS.  C, 

To  this  mark,  morcy  goes,  and  there,  ends  grace, 
rtiougli  still  tlie  permeable  crystals  hint 

At  some  white  starr\'  distance,  batlved  in  space. 
I  feel  how  nature's  ice-cnists  keep  the  dint 

Of  undersprings  of  silent  Deity. 
r  hold  the  articulated  gospels,  which 

Show  Christ  among  us,  crucified  on  tree. 
I  love  all  who  love  truth,  if  poor  or  rich 

In  what  they  have  won  of  truth  possessivel}^ 
No  altars  and  no  hands  defiled  with  pitch 

Shall  scare  me  off,  but  I  will  pray  and  eat 
With  all  these — taking  leave  to  choose  my  ewers 

And  say  at  last,  "Your  visible  churches  cheat 
Their  inward  types — and,  if  a  cinirch  assures 

Of  standing  without  failure  and  defeat, 
The  same  both  fails  and  lies." 

To  leave  which  lures 

Of  wider  subject  through  past  3'ears — behold, 
We  come  back  from  the  popedom  to  the  pope. 

To  ponder  what  he  must  be,  ere  we  are  bold 
For  what  he  mcnj  be,  with  our  heavy  hope 

To  trust  upon  liis  soul.      So,  fold  by  fold. 
Explore  this  mummy  in  the  priestly  cope. 

Transmitted  through  the  darks  of  time,  to  catch 
The  man  within  the  wrappage,  and  discei'u 

How  he,  an  honest  man,  upon  the  watch 
Full  fifty  years,  for  what  a  man  ma}'^  learn. 

Contrived  to  get  just  there  ;  with  what  a  snatch 
Of  old-world  oboli  he  had  to  earn 

The  passage  through  ;  with  what  a  drowsy  sop 
To  drench  the  busy  barkings  of  his  brain  ; 

What  ghosts  of  pale  tradition,  Avreathed  with  hop, 
'Gainst  wakeful  thought,  he  had  to  entertain 

For  heavenly  visions  ;  and  consent  to  stop 
The  clock  at  noon,  and  let  the  hour  remain 

(Without  vain  windings  up)  inviolate. 
Against  all  chimings  from  the  belfry.     Lo, 

From  every  given  pope  you  must  abate. 
Albeit  you  love  him,  some  things — good,  you  kno\^  — 

Which  every  given  heretic  you  bate, 
Assumes  for  his,  as  being  plainl}'^  so. 

A  pope  must  hold  by  popes  a  little — j'cs, 
By  councils — from  Nicas  up  to  Trent — 

By  hierocratic  empire,  more  or  less 
Irresponsible  to  men — he  must  resent 


(32  OASA     GUIDI     WINDOWS. 

Eacli  man's  particular  conscience,  and  repress 
Inquir}',  meditation,  argument, 

As  tyrant's  faction.     Also,  he  must  not 
Lpve  truth  too  dangerously,  but  prefer 

"  The  interests  of  the  Church,"  (because  a  blot 
Is  better  than  a  rent,  in  miniver) 

Submit  to  see  the  people  swallow  hot 
Husk-porridge,  which  his  chartered  churchmen  s*;ir 

Quoting  the  only  true  God's  epigraph, 
"  Feed  my  lambs,  Peter  !" — must  consent  to  sit 

Attesting  with  his- pastoral  ring  and  staff. 
To  such  a  picture  of  our  Lady,  hit 

Off  well  by  artist  angels,  (though  not  half 
As  fair  as  Giotto  would  have  painted  it) — 

To  such  a  vial,  where  a  dead  man's  blood 
Runs  yearly  warm  l)eneath  a  churchman's  finger; 

To  such  a  holy  house  of  stone  and  wood, 
Whereof  a  cloud  of  angels  was  the  bringer 

From  Bethlehem  to  Loreto. — Were  it  good 
For  any  pope  on  earth  to  be  a  flinger 

Of  stones  against  these  high-niched  counterfeits? 
Apostates  only  are  iconoclasts. 

He  dares  not  say,  while  this  false  thing  abets 
That  true  thing,  "  this  is  false."     He  keeps  his  fasts 

And  prayers,  as  prayer  and  fast  were  silver  frets 
To  change  a  note  upon  a  string  tliat  lasts, 

And  make  a  lie  a  virtue.     Now,  if  he 
Did  more  than  this,  higher  hoped,  and  braver  dared, 

I  think  he  were  a  pope  in  jeopardy. 
Or  no  pope  rather,  for  his  truth  had  barred 

The  vanlting  of  his  life — and  certainl}', 
If  he  do  onl3'  this,  mfinkind's  regard 

Moves  on  from  him  at  once,  to  seek  some  new 
Teacher  and  leader.     He  is  good  and  great 

According  to  the  deeds  a  pope  can  do  ; 
Most  liberal,  save  those  bonds  ;  affectionate, 

As  princes  may  be,  and,  as  priests  are,  true; 
But  only  the  ninth  Pius  after  eight. 

When  all's  praised  most.     At  best  and  hopefullest, 
He's  pope — we  want  a  man  !  his  heart  beats  warm, 

But,  like  the  prince  enchanted  to  the  waist, 
He  sits  in  stone,  and  hardens  by  a  charm 

Into  the  marble  of  his  throne  high-placed. 
Mild  lienediction,  waves  his  saintlj'  arm — 

So,  good  !  but  what  we  want's  a  perfect  man, 
Complete  and  all  alive  :  half  travertine 


CA.SA     auIDI     WINDOWS.  gg 

Half  suits  our  need,  and  ill  subserves  our  plan. 
Feet,  knees,  nerves,  sinews,  energies  divine 

Were  never  yet  too  much  for  men  who  ran 
In  such  hard  ways  as  must  be  this  of  thine, 

Deliverer  whom  we  seek,  whoe'er  thou  art. 
Pope,  prince,  or  peasant !     If,  indeed,  the  first, 

The  noblest,  tlierefore!  since  the  heroic  lieart 
Within  thee  must  be  great  enougli  to  burst 

Tiiose  trammels  buckling  to  the  baser  part 
Tliy  saintlj-  peers  in  Rome,  wlio  crossed  and  cursed 

With  the  same  finger. 

Come,  appear,  be  found, 
If  pope  or  peasant,  come  !  we  hear  the  cock. 

The  courtier  of  the  mountains  wlien  first  crowned 
With  golden  dawn  ;  and  orient  glories  flock 

To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  liighest  ground. 
Take  voice  and  work !  we  wait  to  hear  tliee  knock 

At  some  one  of  our  Florentine  nine  gates. 
On  eacli  of  whicli  was  hnaged  a  sublime 

Face  of  a  Tuscan  genius,  which,  f(jr  hate's 
And  love's  sake,  both,  our  Florence  in  her  prime 

Turned  boldly  on  allcomers  to  her  states, 
As  heroes  turned  their  shields  in  antique  time, 

I]mblazoiied  with  honorable  acts.      And  though 
The  gates  are  l)lank  now  of  such  images, 

And  Petrarch  looks  no  more  from  Xicolo 
Toward  dear  Arezzo,  'twixt  the  acacia's  trees, 

Xor  Dante,  from  gate  Grallo — still  we  know. 
Despite  the  razing  of  the  blazonries. 

Remains  the  consecration  of  the  shield  ? 
The  dead  heroic  faces  will  start  out 

On  all  these  gates,  if  foes  should  take  the  field, 
And  blend  sublimely,  at  the  earliest  shout. 

With  living  heroes  who  will  scorn  to  yield 
A  hair's-breadth  even,  when,  gazing  round  about, 

They  find  in  what  a  glorious  company 
Thev  fight  the  foes  of  Florence.     Who  will  grudge 

His  one  poor  life,  when  that  great  man  we  see 
Has  given  five  hundred  years,  the  world  being  judge, 

To  help  the  glory  of  his  Ital}'  ? 
AVho,  born  the  fair  side  of  the  Alps,  will  budge, 

When  Dante  staj's,  when  Ariosto  sta^ys. 
When  Petrarch  stays  forever  !     Ye  bring  swords, 

My  Tuscans?     Ay,  if  wanted  in  this  haze, 
Driug  swords.    But  first  bring  souls! — bring  thoughts 
and  words, 


64  CASA     GL'IDI     WINDOWS. 

Unrusted  by  a  tear  of  yesterday's, 
Yet  awful  ))y  its  wrong — and  cut  these  cords, 

And  mow  this  green  lush  falsenes  to  the  roots, 
And  shut  the  mouth  of  hell  below  the  swathe  ! 

And,  if  ye  can  bring  songs  too,  let  the  lute's 
Recoverable  music  softly  bathe 

Some  poet's  hand,  that,  through  all  bursts  and  bruita 
Of  popular  passion,  all  unripe  and  rathe 

Convictions  of  the  popular  intellect, 
Ye  may  not  lack  a  finger  up  the  air, 

Annunciative,  reproving,  pure,  erect, 
To  show  which  way  your  first  Ideal  bear 

The  whiteness  of  its  wings,  when  (sorely  pecked 
y>y  falcons  on  jour  wrists)  it  unaware 

Arose  up  overhead,  and  out  of  sight. 

Meanwhile,  let  all  tlie  ftar  ends  of  the  world 

Breathe  back  the  deep  breath  of  their  old  delight, 
To  swell  the  Italian  banner  just  unfurled. 

Help,  lands  of  Europe  !  for,  if  Austria  fight. 
The  drums  will  bar  your  slumber.     Had  ye  curled 

The  laurel  for  your  thousand  artists'  brows, 
If  these  Italian  hands  had  planted  none  ? 

Can  any  .'^it  down  idle  in  the  house, 
Nor  hear  appeals  from  Buonarroti's  stone 

And  Ratfael's  canvas,  rousing  and  to  rouse  ? 
Where's  Poussin's  master?     Gallic  Avignon 

Bred  Laura,  and  Vaucluse's  fount  has  stirred 
The  heart  of  France  too  strongly,  as  it  lets 

Its  little  stream  out,  (like  a  wizard's  bird 
Which  bounds  upon  its  emerald  wing  and  wets 

The  rocks  on  each  side)  that  she  should  not  gird 
Her  loins  with  Charlemagne's  sword  when  foes  beset 

The  count rv  of  her  Petrarch.     Spain  may  well 
Be  minded  how  from  Italy  she  caught. 

To  mingle  with  her  tinkling  Moorish  bell, 
'A  fuller  cadence  and  a  subtler  thought. 

And  even  the  New  World,  the  receptacle 
Of  freemen,  may  send  glad  men,  as  it  ought, 

To  greet  Vespucci  Amerigo's  door. 
While  England  claims,  b}"  trump  of  poetrj^ 

Verona,  Venice,  the  Ravenna-shore, 
And  dearer  holds  John  Milton's  Fiesole 

Then  Langlande's  Malvern  ■with,  the  stars  in  flower 

And  Vallombrosa,  we  too  went  to  see 

Last  June,  beloved  companion — where  sublime 


C  A  S  A      G  U  I  D  I      W  I  N  L.  0  W  3  (55 

The  mountains  live  in  holy  families, 

And  the  slow  pinewoods  ever  eliinb  and  elimb 
Half  up  their  breasts,  just  stagger  as  they  seize 

Some  gray  crag,  drop  back  ^vitll  it  many  a  time, 
And  straggle  blindl}'  down  the  precipice ! 

The  ya41()mbrosan  brooks  were  strewn  as  thick 
That  June-day,  knee-deep,  with  dead  beechen  leaves, 

As  Milton  saw  them,  ere  his  heart  grew  sick 
And  his  eyes  blind.     I  think  the  monks  and  beeves 

Are  all  the  same,  too.     Scarce  they  have  chanoed 
the  wick 
On  good  St.  Gualbert's  altar,  which  receives 

The  convent's  pilgrims — and  the  pool  in  front 
(Wlierein  the  hill-stream  trout  are  cast,  to  wait 

The  beatific  vision  and  the  grunt 
TJsed  at  refector}')  keeps  its  weedy  state. 

To  baffle  saintly  abbots  who  would  count 
The  fish  across  their  breviary  nor  'bate 

The  measure  of  their  steps.     O  waterfalls 
And  forests  !  sound  and  silence  !  mountains  bare. 

That  leap  up  peak  by  peak,  and  catch  the  palls 
Of  purple  and  silver  mist  to  rend  and  share 

AVith  one  another,  at  electric  calls 
Of  life  in  the  sunl)eams — till  we  cannot  dare 

Fix  your  shapes,    count   3'our  number !    we    must 
tliink 
Your  beaut}'  and  your  glory  helped  to  fill 

The  cup  of  Milton's  soul  so  to  the  brink, 
He  never  more  was  thirsty,  when  God's  will 

Had  shattered  to  his  sense  the  last  chain-link 
By  which  he  had  drawn  from  Nature's  visible 

The  fresh  well-water.     Satisfied  by  this, 
He  sang  of  Adam's  paradise  and  smiled. 

Remembering  Vallombrosa.     Therefore  is 
The  place  divine  to  English  man  and  child, 

And  pilgrims  leave  their  souls  here  in  a  kiss. 

For  Italy's  the  whole  earth's  treasury,  piled 

With  reveries  of  gentle  ladies,  flung 
Aside,  like  ravelled  silk,  from  life's  worn  stuff;  . 

Witli  coins  of  scholars'  fancy,  which,  being  rung 
On  work-day  counter,  still  sound  silver-proof; 
•    In  short,  with  all  the  dreams  of  dreamers  young, 
Before  their  heads  have  tijoe  for  slipping  olf 

Hope's  pillow  to  tlie  ground.     How  oft,  indeed, 
We've  sent  our  souls  out  from  tiie  rigid  uortl\, 


66  CASA     QUIDI     WINDOWS. 

On   hare   white    feet    which    would   not    print   nor 
bleed, 
To  climb  the  Alpine  passes  and  look  forth, 

Where  booming  low  the  Lombard  livers  lead 
To  gardens,  vineyards,  all  a  dream  is  worth 

Sights,  thou  and  I,  Love,  have  seen  afterward 
From  Tuscan  Bellosguardo,  wide  awake,* 

When,  standing  on  the  actual  blessed  sward 
Where  Galileo  stood  at  nights  to  take 

The  vision  of  the  stars,  we  have  found  it  hard, 
Gazing  upon  the  earth  and  heaven,  to  make 

A  choice  of  beauty. 

Therefore  let  us  all 
Refreshed  in  England  or  in  other  land. 

By  visions,  with  their  fountain-rise  and  fall, 
Of  this  earth's  darling — we,  who  understand 

A  little  how  the  Tuscan  musical 
Vowels  do  round  themselves  as  if  they  planned 

Eternities  of  separate  sweetness — we 
Who  loved  Sorrento  vines  in  picture-book, 

Or  ere  in  wine-cup  we  pledged  faith  or  glee — 
Who  loved  Rome's  wolf,  with  demi-gods  at  suck, 

Or  ere  we  loved  truth's  own  divinity — 
Who  loved,  in  brief,  the  classic  hill  and  brook, 

And  Ovid's  dreaming  tales,  and  Petrarch's  song. 
Or  ere  we  loved  Love's  self  even  ! — let  us  give 

The  blessing  of  our  souls,  (and  wish  them  strong 
To  bear  it  to  the  height  where  prayers  arrive. 

When  faithful  spirits  pray  against  a  wrong,) 
To  this  great  cause  of  southern  men,  who  strive 

In  God's  name  for  man's  rights,  and  shall  not  fail. 

Behold,  they  shall  not  fail.     The  shouts  ascend 

Above  the  shrieks,  in  Naples,  and  prevail. 
Rows  of  shot  corpses,  waiting  for  the  end 

Of  burial,  seem  to  smile  up  straight  and  pale 
Into  the  azure  air  and  apprehend 

That  final  gun-flash  from  Palermo's  coast 
Which  lightens  their  apocalypse  of  death. 

So  let  them  die  !     The  world  shows  nothing  lost ; 
Therefore,  not  blood.     Above  or  underneath. 

What  matter,  brothers,  if  ye  keep  your  post 
On  duty's  side  ?     As  sword  returns  to  sheath. 

So  dust  to  grave,  but  souls  find  place  in  Heaven. 
Heroic  daring  is  the  true  success, 

*  Gtilileo's  villa,  close  to  Florence,  is   built  ou  au  eminence 
called  Bellosguardo. 


CASA     GUIDI     WINDOWS.  67 

The  eucliavistic  bread  requires  no  leaven  ; 
A-Hd    though   your   ends    were    hopeless,    we    should 
bless 

Your  cause  as  holy.     Strive — and  having  striven, 
Take,  for  God's  recompense,  that  righteousness  ! 

PART  II. 

I  WROTE  a  meditation  and  a  dream, 

Hearing  a  little  child  sing  in  the  street. 
I  leant  upon  his  music  as  a  theme, 

Till  it  gave  way  beneath  my  heart's  full  beat, 
Which  tried  at  an  exultant  prophecy 

But  dropped  before  the  measure  was  complete — 
Alas,  for  songs  and  hearts !     0  Tuscany, 

0  Dante's  Florence,  is  the  type  too  plain  ? 
Didst  thou,  too,  only  sing  of  liberty. 

As  little  children  take  up  a  high  strain 
With  unintentioned  voices,  and  break  otf 

To  sleep  upon  their  mother's  knees  again? 
Could'st    thou    not    watch    one    hour?    then,  sleep 
enough — 

That  sleep  may  hasten  manhood,  and  sustain 
The  faint  pale  spirit  with  some  muscular  stuff. 

But  we,  who  cannot  slumber  as  thou  dost, 
We  thinkers,  who  have  thought  for  thee  and  failed, 

We  hopers,  who  have  hoped  for  thee  and  lost. 
We  poets,  w^andered  round  by  dreams,*  who  hailed 

From  this  Atrides'  roof  (with  lintel-post 
Which  still    drips   blood — the  worst    part   hath   pre 
vailed) 

The  fire-voice  of  the  beacons,  to  declare 
Troy  taken,  sorrow  ended — cozened  through 

A  crimson  sunset  in  a  misty  air — 
What  now  remains  for  such  as  we,  to  do  ? 

God's  judgments,  peradventure,  will  He  bare 
To  the  roots  of  thunder,  if  we  kneel  and  sue? 

From  Casa  Guidi  w'indows  I  looked  forth, 
And  saw  ten  thousand  eyes  of  Florentines 

Flash  back  the  triumph  of  the  Lombard  north — 
Saw  fifl3^  banners,  freiglited  with  the  signs 

And  exultations  of  the  awakened  earth. 
Float  on  above  the  multitude  in  lines. 

Straight  to  the  Fitti.     So,  the  vision  went. 
And  so,  between  those  populous  rough  hands 

*  See.  the  ojjeiiing  passage  of  the  Agameiunou  of  /Eschylua. 


68  CASA     GUIDI     WINDOWS. 

Raised  in  the  sun,  Duke  Leopold  outleant, 
And  took  the  patriot's  oatli,  which  henceforth  standa 

Among  the  oaths  of  perjurers,  eminent 
To  catch  the  lightnings  ripened  for  these  lands. 

Why  swear  at  all,  thou  false  Duke  Leopold  T 
What  need  to  swear?   What  need  to  boast  thy  blood 

Unspoilt  of  Austria,  and  thy  heart  unsold 
Away  from  Florence  ?     It  was  understood 

God  made  thee  not  too  vigorous  or  too  bold  ; 
And  men  had  patience  with  thy  quiet  mood, 

And  women,  pity,  as  they  saw  thee  pace 
Their  festive  streets  with  premature  gre}'  hairs 

We  turned  the  mild  dejection  of  thy  face 
To  princely  meanings,  took  thy  Avrinkliug  cares 

For  ruffling  hopes,  and  called  thee  weak  not  base. 
Na,y,  better  light  the  torches  for  more  pra^yers 

And  smoke  the  pale  Madonnas  at  the  shrine, 
Being  still  "our  poor  Grand-duke,  our  good   Grand 

duke, 
"  Who  cannot  help  the  Austrian  in  his  line" — 
Than  write  an  oath  upon  a  nation's  book 

For  men  to  spit  at  with  scorn's  blurring  brine ! 
Who  dares  forgive  what  none  can  overlook  ? 

For  me,  I  do  repent  me  in  this  dust 
Of  towns  and  temples,  which  makes  Ital}' — 

I  sigh  amid  the  sighs  which  breathe  a  gust 
Of  dying  century  to  century 

Around  us  on  the  uneven  crater-crust 
Of  these  old  worlds — I  bow  my  soul  and  knee  ! 

Absolve  me,  patriots,  of  my  woman's  fault 
That  ever  I  believed  the  man  was  true  ! — 

These  sceptred  strangers  shun  the  common  salt, 
And,  therefore,  when  the  general  board's  in  view. 

And  they  stand  up  to  carve  for  blind  and  halt, 
The  wise  suspect  the  viands  which  ensue. 

I  much  repent  that,  in  this  time  and  place. 
Where  many  corpse-lights  of  experience  burn 

From  Caesar's  and  Lorenzo's  festering  race, 
To  enlighten  groping  reasoners,  I  could  learn 

iS'o  better  counsel  for  a  simple  case. 
Than  to  put  faith  in  princes,  in  my  turn. 

Had  all  the  death-piles  of  the  ancient  years 
Flared  up  in  vain  before  me  ?  knew  I  not 

What  stench  arises  from  some  purple  gears  ? 
Aud  how  the  sceptres  witness  whence  they  got 


± 


■f-: 


CASA     aUIDI     WINDOWS.     ^ 


Their    briar-wood,   crackling    through    the 
ph  ore's 
Foul  smoke,  by  princely  perjuries,  kept  hot  ? 

Forgive  me,  ghosts  of  patriots — Brutus,  thou. 
Who  trailest  downhill  into  life  again 

Thy    blood-weighed  cloak,  to    indict  me  with  thy 
slow 
Reproachful  eyes  ! — for  being  tauglit  in  vain 

That,  wliile  the  illegitimate  C.iesars  show 
Of  meaner  stature  than  the  first  full  strain, 

(Confessed  incompetent  to  conq\ier  Gaul) 
The_y  swoon  as  feebly  and  cross  Rubicons 

As  rashl^^  as  any  Julius  of  them  all! 
Forgive,  that  I  forgot  the  mind  which  runs 

Through  absolute  races,  too  unskeptical ! 
I  saw  the  man  among  his  little  sons, 

His  lips  were  warm  with  kisses  while  he  swore 

And  I  because  I  am  a  woman,  I, 

Who  felt  my  own  child's  coming  life  before 
The  prescience  of  my  soul,  and  held  faith  higher 

I  could  not  bear  to  think,  whoever  bore. 
That  lips,  so  warmed,  could  shape  so  cold  a  lie. 

From  Casa  Guidi  Avindows  I  looked  out. 
Again  looked,  and  beheld  a  different  sight. 

The  Duke  had  fled  before  the  people's  shout 
"  Long  live  the  Duke  !  "     A  'people,  to  speak  right, 

Must  speak  as  soft  as  courtiers,  lest  a  doubt 
Should  curdle  brows  of  gracious  sovereigns,  white. 

Moreover  that  same  dangerous  shouting  meant 
Some  gratitude  for  future  favors,  which 

Were  only  promised,  the   Constituent 
Implied,  the  whole  being  subject  to  the  hitch 

In  "  motu  proprios,"  very  incident 
To  all  these  Czars,  from  Paul  to  Taulovitch. 

Whereat  the  people  rose  up  in  the  dust        •       • 
Of  the  ruler's  flying  feet,  and  shouted  still 

And  loudly,  only,  this  time,  as  was  just, 
Xot  "  Live  the  Duke,"  who  had  fled,  Ibi:  good  or  ill, 

But  "  Live  the  People,"  who  remained  and  must, 
The  unrenounced  and  unrenounceable. 

Long  live  the  people  !   How  they  lived  !  and  boiled 
And  bubbled  in  the  cauldron  of  the  street. 

Plow  the  young  blustered,  nor  the  old  recoiled — 
And  what  a  thunderous  stir  of  tongues  and  feet 

Trod  flat  the  palpitating  bells,  and  foiled 
The  joy-guns  of  their  echo,  shattering  it  1 


atmo3-        -V' . 


;■ 
■/.    / 


;^ 


^ 


rQ  CAS  A      aUIDI     WINDOWS. 

How    down    they    pulled    the  Duke's   arms  every 
where  ! 

How  up  the  set  new  cafe-signs,  to  show 

Where  patriot!5  might  sip  ices  in  pure  air — 
(The  fresh  paint  swelling  somewhat..)     To  and  fro 

How  marched  the  civic  guard,  and  stopped  to  stare 
When  boys  broke  windows  in  a  civic  glow. 

How  rebel  songs  were  sung  to  loj-al  tunes, 
And  bishops  cursed  in  ecclesiastic  metres. 

How  all  the  Circoli  grew  large  as  moons, 
And  all  the  speakers,  moonstruck— thankful  greetevs 

Of  prospects  which  struck  poor  the  ducal  boons,  , 
A  mere  free  press,  and  chambers  ! — frank  repeaters 

Of  great  Guerazzi's  pniises.  .  .  .  "There's  a  man, 
The  father  of  tlie  land  ! — who,  truly  great, 

Takes  off  that  national  disgrace  and  ban, 
Ti-.e  farthing  tax  upon  our  Florence-gate, 

And  saves  Italia  as  he  only  can." 
How  all  the  nobles  fled,  and  would  not  wait. 

Because  they  were  most  noble — which  being  so, 
How  liberals  vowed  to  burn  their  palaces. 

Because  free  Tuscans  were  not  free  to  go. 
How  grown  men  raged  at  Austria's  Avickedness, 

And  smoked — while  fifty  striplings  in  a  row 
Marched  straight  to  Piedmont  for  the  wrong's  redress  1 

You  say  we  failed  in  duty,  we  who  wore 
Black  velvet  like  Italian  Democrats, 

Who  slashed  our  sleeves  like  patriots,  nor  forswore 
The  true  republic  in  the  form  of  hats  ? 

We  chased  the  archbishop  from  the  Duomo  door — 
We  chalked  the  walls  with  bloody  caveats 

Against  all  tyrants.     If  we  did  not  fight 


i   I  Exactly,  we  fired  muskets  up  the  air, 


To  show  that  victor}-  was  ours  of  right. 
We  met,  had  free  discussion  everywhere 

(Except  perhaps  1'  the  Chambers)  day  and  night. 
We  proved  the  poor  should  be  employed,  .  .  .  that'a 
fair — 

And  yet  the  rich  not  worked  for  anywise — 
Pay  certified,  yet  payers  abrogated — 

Full  work  secured,  yet  liabilities 
To  over-work  excluded — not  one  bated 

Of  all  our  holidays,  that  still,  at  twice 
Or  thrice  a-week,  are  moderately  rated. 

We  proved  that  Austria  was  dislodged,  or  would 
O-  should  be,  and  that  Tuscany  in  arms 


CAS  A     GUIDI     WINDOWS.  'j\ 

Should,  would,  dislodge  her,  ending  the  old  feud; 
And  yet  to  leave  our  piazzas,  shops,  and  farms, 

For  the  simple  sake  of  flgliting,  was  not  good — 
We  proved  that  also.     "  Did  we  carry  charms 

x\ gainst  being  killed  ourselves,  that  we  should  rush 
On  killing  others  ?  what !  desert  herewith 

Our  wives  and  mothers  ? — was  that  duty  ?  tush  !" 
At  which  we  shook  the  sword  within  the  sheath. 

Like  heroes — only  louder;  and  the  flush 
Ran  'ip  the  cheek  to  meet  the  future  wreath. 

iSay,  what  we  proved,  we  shouted — how  we  shouted, 
(Especially  the  boys  did)  boldly  planting 

That  tree  of  libert3',  \\  hose  fruit  is  doubted, 
Because  the  roots  are  not  of  nature's  granting. 

A  tree  of  good  and  evil  ! — none,  without  it. 
Grow  gods  ! — alas,  and,  with  it,  men  are  wanting! 

O  hol^'  knowiedge,  hol3'  liberty, 
0  holy  rights  of  nations!     If  I  speak 

These  bitter  things  against  the  jugglery 
Of  days  that  in  your  names  proved  blind  and  weak. 

It  is  that  tears  are  bitter.     When  we  see 
The  bro\vn  skulls  grin  at  death  in  churchyards  bleak, 

We  do  not  cr3^,  "  This  Yorick  is  too  light," 
For  death  grows  deathlicr  with  that  mouth  he  makes 

So  with  ray  mocking.     Bitter  things  1  write, 
Because  ray  soul  is  bitter  for  your  sakes, 

O  freedom  !  O  my  Florence ! 

Men  who  might 
Do  greatl3'  in  a  universe  that  breaks 

And  burns,  must  ever  know  before  they  do. 
Courage  and  patience  are  but  sacriiice ; 

And  sacrifice  is  offered  for  and  to 
Something  conceived  of     Each  man  pays  a  price 

For  what  himself  counts  i)recious,  whether  true 
Or  false  the  appreciation  it  implies 

But  here — no  knowledge,  no  conception,  naught  1 
Desire  was  absent,  that  proA-ides  ^reat  deeds 

From  out  the  greatness  of  prevenient  thought. 
And  action,  action,  like  a  flame  that  needs    - 

A  stead\'  breath  and  fuel,  being  caught 
Uj),  like  a  burning  reed  from  other  reeds. 

Flashed  in  the  empty  and  uncertain  air. 
Then  wavered,  then  went  out.     Behold,  who  blames 

A  crooked  course,  when  not  avg'oal  is  there. 
To  round  the  fervid  striving  o'f  the  uames? 


72  CAS  A     GUIDI     WINDOWS. 

An  ignorance  of  means  ma}'  minister 
To  greatness,  but  an  ignorance  of  aims 
Mal\es  it  impossible  to  be  great  at  all. 
Bo,  ■nith  our  Tuscans !     Let  none  dare  to  say, 

"  Here  virtue  never  can  be  national, 
flere  fortitude  can  never  cut  a  way 

Between  the  Austrian  muskets,  out  of  thrall." 
1  tell  you  rathjr,  that,  whoever  may 

Discern  true  ends  here,  shall  grow  pure  enough 
To  love  them,  brave  enough  to  strive  for  them, 

And    strong   to  reach    them,  though  the  roads  be 
rough ! 
That  having  learnt — by  no  mere  apophthegm- 
i         Not  just  the  draping  of  a  graceful  stulf 
c>^    About  a  statue,  broidered  at  the  hem — 

Not  just  the  trilling  on  an  opera  stage. 
.  .:.    Of  "  liberta  "  to  bravos — (a  fair  word, 
>sl        Yet  too  allied  to  inarticulate  rage 
~--N     And  breathless  sobs,  for  singing,  though  the  chord 
I         AVere  deeper  than  they  struck  it !)  but  the  gauge 
.         Of  civil  wants  sustained,  and  wrongs  abhonod — 
^        The  serious,  sacred  meaning  and  full  use 
V     Of  freedom  for  a  nation — then,  indeed, 
i         Our  Tuscans,  underneath  the  blood}'  dews 
•<.     Of  some  new  morning,  rising  up  agreed 
<:        And  bold,  will  want  no  Saxon  souls  or  thews, 
To  sweep  their  piazzas  clear  of  Austria's  breed. 

Alas,  alas  !  it  was  not  so  this  time. 
Conviction  was  not,  courage  failed,  and  truth 

Was  something  to  be  doubted  of     The  mime 
Changed  masks  because  a  mime.     The  tide  as  smooth 

In  running  in  as  out,  no  sense  of  crime 
Because  no  sense  of  virtue,  sudden  ruth 

fceized  on  the  people.— They  would  have  again 
Their  sood  Grand-duke,  and  leave  Guerazzi,  though 

He  took  that  tax  from  Florence.     "  Much  in  vain 
•'  ile  takes  it  from  the  market-carts,  Ave  trow. 

While  urgent  that  no  market-men  remain. 
But  all  march  off  and  leave  the  spade  and  plow, 

To  die  among  the  Lombards.     AVas  it  thus 
The  dear  paternal  Duke  did  ?     Leave  the  Duke !" 

At  which  the  Joy-bells  multitudinous, 
Swept  by  an  opposite  wind,  as  loudly  shook. 

Call  back  the  mild  archbishop  to  his  house. 
To  bless  the  people  with  his  frightened  look — 


OASA     aUIDI     WINDOWS.  73 

He  shall  not  yet  be  hanged,  you  comprehend. 
Seize  on  Gnerazzi!  guard  him  in  full  view, 

Or  else  we  stal)  him  in  the  back  to  end. 
Rub  out  those  chalked  devices  !    set  up  new ! 

The  Duke's  arms!  dolF  your  Phrygian  caps;  and 
mend 
The  pavement  of  the  piazzas  broke  into 

I)}'  barren  poles  of  freedom  ;  smooth  the  way 
For  the  ducal  carriage,  lest  his  highness  sigh 

"  Here  trees  of  liberty  grew  yesterda}'." 
"Long  live  the  Duke  !"— How  "roared  the  cannonry, 

How  rocked  the  bell-towers,  and  through  thickening 
spray 
Of  nosegays,  wreaths,  and  kerchiefs  tossed  on  high, 

How  marched  the  civic  guard,  the  people  still 
Being  good  at  shouts — especially  tlie  boys. 

Alas,  poor  people,  of  an  untledgcd  will 
Most  fitly  expressed  by  such  a  callow  voice ! 

Alas,  still  poorer  Duke,  incapable 
Of  being  worthy  even  of  so  much  noise! 

You  think  he  came  back  instantly,  with  thanks 
And  tears  in  his  faint  eyes,  and  hands  extended 

To  stretch  the  franchise  through  their  utmost  ranks  ? 
That  having,  like  a  father,  apprehended, 

He  came  to  pardon  fatherly  tliose  pranks 
Played  out,  and  now  in  filial  service  ended?-:— 

That  some  love-token,  like  a  prince,  he  threw. 
To  meet  the  people's  love-call,  in  return  ? 

Well,  how  he  came  I  will  relate  to  you; 
And  if  your  hearts   should  burn,   why,  hearts    musl 
burn, 

To  make  the  ashes  which  things  old  and  new 
Shall  be  washed  clean  in — as  this  Duke  will  learn. 

From  Casa  Guidi  windows,  gazing,  then, 
I  saw  and  witness  how  the  Duke  came  back. 

The  regular  tramp  of  horse  and  tread  of  men 
Did  smite  the  silence  like  an  anvil  ])lack 

And  sparkless.     With  her  wide  eyes  at  full  strain. 
Our  Tuscan  nurse  exclaimed,  "Alack,  alack, 

Signora!  these  shall  be  the  Austrians."     "Nay, 
Be  still,"  I  answered,  "  do  not  wake  the  child  !" 

— For  so,  my  two-months'  baby  sleeping  la}' 
In  milky  dreams  upon  the  bed  and  smiled, 

And  I  thought,  "  he  shall  sleep  on,  while  he  may, 
Through  the  world's  baseness.   Not  being  yet  defiled, 


74  CASA     OUIDI      WINDOWS. 

Why  should  he  he  disturhed  b}*  what  is  done?" 
Then,  gazing,  I  beheld  the  long-drawn  street 

Live  out,  from  end  to  end,  full  in  the  sun. 
With  Austria's  thousands.   Sword  and  bayonet, 

Horse,  foot,  artillery' — cannons  rolling  on. 
Like  blind  slow  storm-(;louds  gestant  with  the  heat 

Of  undeveloped  lightnings,  each  bestrode 
Bj  a  single  man,  dust-white  from  head  to  heel, 

Indifferent  as  the  dreadful  thing  he  rode, 
Like  a  sculptured  Fate  serene  and  terrible. 

As  some  smooth  river  which  has  overflowed. 
Will  slow  and  silent  down  its  current  wheel 

A  loosened  forest,  all  the  pines  erect — 
So,  swept,  in  mute  significance  of  storm. 

The  marshalled  thousands — not  an  e^^e  deflect 
To  left  or  right,  to  catch  a  novel  form 

Of  Florence  city  adorned  by  architect 
And  carver,  or  of  Beauties  live  and  warrc 

Scared  at  the  casements  ! — all,  straightforward  eyes 
And  faces,  held  as  stcdfast  as  their  swords, 

And  cognizant  of  acts,  not  imageries. 
The  key,  O  Tuscans,  too  well  fits  the  wards  ! 

Ye  asked  for  mimes — these  bring  you  tragedies. 
For  purple — these  shall  wear  it  as  your  lords. 

Ye  played  like  children — die  like  innocents. 
Ye  mimicked  lightnings  with  a  torch — the  crack 

Of  the  actual  bolt,  your  pastime  circumvents. 
Ye  called  up  ghosts,  believing  they  were  slack 

To  follow  an}'  voice  from  Gilboa's  tents,   .   . 
Here's  Samuel! — and,  so.  Grand-dukes  come  back! 

And  yet,  they  are  no  prophets  though  they  come. 
That  awful  mantle,  they  are  drawing  close, 

Shall  be  searched,  one  day,  by  the  shafts  of  Doom 
Through  double  folds  now  hoodwinking  the  brows. 

Resuscitated  monarchs  disentomb 
Grave-reptiles  with  them,  in  their  new  life-throes. 

Let  such  beware.     Behold,  the  people  waits. 
Like  God.    As  He,  in  his  serene  of  niiglit, 

So  the}^  in  their  endurance  of  long  straits. 
Ye  stamp  no  nation  out,  though  day  and  night, 

Yo  tread  them  with  that  absolute  heel  which  grates 
And  grinds  them  flat  from  all  attempted  height. 

You  kill  worms  sooner  with  a  garden-spade 
Than  you  kill  peoples  :  jieoples  will  not  die  ; 
\      The  tail  curls  stronger  when  you  lop  the  head; 


CASA      aUIDI      WINDOWS.  75 

The}'  ^'rilhe  at  evciy  wound  and  multiply, 

And  shudder  into  a  heap  of  life  that's  made 
Thus  vital  from  God's  own  vitalit}-. 

'Tis  hard  to  shrivel  back  a  da}^  of  God's 
Once  fixed  for  judgment:  'tis  as  hard  to  change 

The  people's,  when  they  rise  beneath  their  loads 
And  heave  them  from  their  backs  with  violent  wrench, 

To  crush  the  oppressor  ! — for  that  judgment-rod's 
The  measure  of  this  popular  revenge. 

Meantime,  from  Casa  Guidi  windows,  we 
Beheld  the  army  of  Austria  flow 

Into  the  drowning  heart  of  Tuscany. 
And  yet  none  wept,  none  cursed,  or,  if 'twas  so, 

They  wept  and  cursed  in  silence.     Silently 
Our  noisy  Tuscans  watched  the  invading  foe; 

The}'^  had  learnt  silence.     Pressed  against  the  wall, 
And  grouped  upon  the  church-steps  opposite, 

A  few  pale  men  and  women  stared  at  all ! 
God  knows  what  the}^  were  feeling,  with  their  white 

Constrained  faces,  the}^  so  prodigal 
Of  cry  and  gesture  when  the  world  goes  right, 

Or  wrong  indeed.     But  here,  was  depth  of  wrono-, 
And  here,  still  water  ;  they  were  silent  here  ; 

And  througli  that  sentient  silence,  struck  along 
That  measured  tramp  from  which  it  stood  out  clear, 

Distinct  the  sound  and  silence,  like  a  gong 
At  midnight,  each  b}^  the  other  awfuller — 

While  every  soldier  in  his  cap  displayed 
A  leaf  of  olive.     Dust}^  bitter  thing  ! 

Was  such  plucked  at  Novara,  is  it  said  ? 

A  cry  is  up  in  England,  which  doth  wring 

The  hollow  world  through,  that  for  ends  of  trade 
And  virtue,  and  God's  better  worshipping, 

We  henceforth  should  exalt  the  name  of  Peace, 
And  leave  those  rusty  wars  that  eat  the  soul — 

Besides  their  clippings  at  our  golden  fleece. 
1,  too,  have  loved  peace,  and  from  bole  to  bole 

Of  immemorial,  undcciduous  trees. 
Would  write,  as  lovers  use,  upon  a  scroll. 

The  holy  name  of  Peace,  and  set  it  high 
Where  none  could  pluck  it  down.     On  trees,  I  say— 

Xot  upon  gibbets  ! — AVith  the  greener}^ 
Of  dewy  branches  and  the  flower}^  May, 

Sweet  mediation  betwixt  earth  and  sky 
Providing,  for  the  siiepherd's  holiday. 


CASA     GUIDI      WINDOWS, 


4A 


.■^ 


Xot  upon  gibbets! — though  the  vulture  leaves 
The  bones  to  quiet,  which  he  first  piclved  bare. 

Not  upon  dungeons  !  though  the  wretch  who  grieves 
And  groans  within,  less  stirs  the  outer  air 

Than  an}' little  field-mouse  stirs  the  sheaves. 
Xot  upon  chain-bolts  !   though  the  slave's  despair 

Has  dulled  his  helpless,  miserable  brain, 
And  left  him  blank  beneath  the  freeman's  whip, 

To  sing  and  laugh  out  idiocies  of  i)ain. 
Xor  yet  on  starving  homes  I  where  many  a  lip 

Has  sobbed  itself  asleep  through  curses  vain. 
I  love  no  peace  which  is  not  fellowship, 

Xnd  which  includes  not  mercy.     I  would  have 
Rather,  the  raking  of  the  guns  across 

The  world,  and  shrieks  against  Heaven's  architrave  ; 
Rather,  the  struggle  in  the  slippery  fosse 

Of  dying  men  and  horses,  and  the  wave 
Blood-bubbling.  .  .  .  Enough  said  ! — By   Christ's  own 
cross, 

And  by  this  faint  heart  of  m}^  womanhood, 
Such  things  are  better  than  a  Peace  that  sits 

Beside  a  hearth  in  self-commended  mood, 
And  takes  no  thought  how  wind  and  rain  by  fits 

Are  howling  out  of  doors  against  the  good 
Of  the  poor  wanderer.     What !  your  peace  admits 

Of  outside  anguish  while  it  keeps  at  home  ? 
'  loath  to  take  its  name  upon  ray  tongue. 

'Tis  nowise  peace.     'Tis  treason,  stiff  with  doom — 
'Tis  gagged  despair,  and  inarticulate  wrong, 

Annihilated  Poland,  stified  Rome, 
Dazed  Naples,  Hungary  fainting  'neath  the  throng, 

And  Austria  w'earing  a  smooth  olive-leaf 
On  her  brute  forehead,  while  her  hoofs  outpress 

The  life  from  these  Italian  souls,  in  brief. 
0  Lord  of  Peace,  who  art  Lord  of  Righteousness, 

Constrain  the  anguished  worlds  from  sin  and  grief 
Pierce  them  with  conscience,  purge  them  with  redresS; 

And  give  us  peace  which  is  no  counterfeit ! 


But  wherefore  should  we  look  out  any  more 

From  Casa  Guidi  windows?     Shut  them  straight. 

And  let  us  sit  down  b}'  the  folded  door. 
And  veil  our  saddened  faces,  and,  so,  wait 

What  next  the  judgment-heavens  make  ready  for. 
I  have  grown  too  wear}'    of  these  windows.     Sights 

Come  thick  enough  and  clear  enough  in  thought, 


OASA     GUIDI     WINDOWS.  7) 

Without  the  sunshine';  souls  have  inner  lights. 
A-iid  since  the  Grand-duke  has  come  back  and  brought 

This  army  of  the  North  which  thus  requites 
His  filial  South,  we  leave  him  to  be  taught. 

His  South,  too,  has  learnt  something  certainly, 
Whereof  the  practice  will  bring  profit  soon ; 

And  peradventure  other  eyes  may  see. 
From  Casa  Guidi  windows,  what  is' done 

Or  undone      Whatsoever  deeds  they  be, 
Pope  Pius  will  be  glorified  in  none. 

Record  that  gain,  Mazzini !— it  shall  top 
Some  heights  of  sorrow.     Peter's  rock,  so  named, 

Shall  lure  no  vessel  any  more  to  drop 
Among  the  breakers.     Peter's  chair  is  shamed 

Like  any  vulgar  throne,  the  nations  lop 
To  pieces  for  their  firewood  unreclaimed 

And,  when  it  burns  too,  we  shall  see  as  well 
In  Italy  as  elsewhere.     Let  it  burn. 

The  cross,  accounted  still  adorable, 
Is  Christ's  cross  only  !— if  the  thief's' would  earn 

Some  stealthy  genuflexions,  we  rebel; 
And  here  the  impenitent  thief's  has  had  its  turn, 

As  God  knows;  and  the  people  on  their  knees' 
Scoff  and  toss  back  the  croziers,  stretclied  like  yokes 

To  press  their  heads  down  lower  by  deorees. 
So  Italy,  by  means  of  these  last  strokes, 

Escapes  the  danger  which  preceded  these, 
Of  leaving  captured  hands  in  cloven  oaks 

Of  leaving  very  souls  within  the  buckle 
Whence  bodies  struggled  outward— of  supposino- 

That    freemen    may,    like     bondsmen,    kneel*  and 
truckle, 
And  then  stand  up  as  usual,  without  losing 

An  inch  of  stature. 

Those  whom  she-wolves  stickle 
Will  bite  as  wolves  do  in  the  grapple-closing 

Of  adverse  interests.     This,  at  last,  is  known, 
(Thank  Pius  for  the  lesson)  that  albeit 

Among  the  popedom "s  hundred  heads  of  stone 
Which  blink  down  on  you  from  the  roof's  retreat 

In  Siena's  tiger-striped  cathedral,  Joan 
And  Borgia  'mid  their  fellows  you  may  greet, 

A  harlot  and  a  devil — you  will  see 
Not  a  man,  still  less  angel,  grandly  set 

With  open  soul  to  render  man  more  free. 
The  fishers  are  still  thinking  of  the  net, 


'8 


CASA     GCIUI     WINDOWS. 


And,  if  not  thinking  of  tlfc  hook  too,  we 
Are  counted  somewhat  deeply  in  their  debt ; 

But  that's  a  rare  case — so  by  hook  and  crook 
They  take  the  advantage,  agonizing  Christ 

By  rustier  nails  than  those  of  Cedron's  brook, 
I'  the  people's  body  ver}'^  c'leaply  })riced — 

And  quote  high  priesthood  out  of  H0I3'  book, 
While  buying  death-lields  with  the  sacrificed. 

Priests,  priests — there's  no  such  name  ! — God's  own,, 
except 
Ye  take  most  vainly.     Through  heaven's  lifted  grate 

The  priestly  ephod  in  sole  glory  swept, 
When  Christ  ascended,  entered  in,  and  sate 

(With  victor  facesublimel}'  overvvept) 
At  Deity's  right  hand,  to  mediate 

He  alone.  He  forever.     On  hisbreast 
The  Urim  and  the  Thummim,  fed  with  fire 

From  the  full  Godhead,  flicker  with  the  unrest 
Of  human,  pitiful  heartl»eats.     Come  up  higher. 

All  Christians  !     Levi's  tribe  is  dispossest. 
That  solitary  alb  ye  shall  admire. 

But  not  cast  lots  for.    The  last  chrism,  poured  right, 
Was  on  that  Head,  and  poured  for  burial. 

And  not  for  domination  in  men's  sight. 
What  are  these  churches?     The  old  temple  w\all 

Doth  overlook  them  iuggling  with  the  sleiijht 
Of  surplice,  candlestick,  and  altar-pall  ; 

East  church  and  west  church,  a}^  north  church  and 
south, 
Rome's  church  and  England's — let  them  all  repent. 

And  make  concordats  'twixt  their  soul  and  mouth 
Succeed  St.  Paul  by  working  at  the  tent. 

Become  infallible  guides  by  speaking  truth, 
And  excommunicate  their  pride  that  bent 

And  cramped  the  souls  of  men. 

Wh}',  even  here 
Priestcraft  burns  out,  the  twined  linen  blazes; 

Not,  like  asbestos,  to  grow  white  and  clear, 
But  all  to  perish  ! — while  the  fire-smell  raises 

To  life  some  swooning  spirits,  who,  last  3'ear, 
Lost  breath  and  heart  in  these  church-stifled  places. 

Whj^  almost,  through  this  Pins,  we  believed 
The  priesthood  could  be  an  honest  thing,  he  smiled 

So  saintly  while  our  corn  was  being  sheaved 
For  his  own  granaries.     Showing  how  defiled 


OASA     OUIDI     WINDOWS.  7'J 

His  hireling  hands,  a  Ix^tter  help's  achieved 
Than  if  they  blessed  us  shepherd-like  and  mild. 

False  doctrine,  stranoled  by  its  own  amen, 
Dies  in  the  throat  of  all  this  nation.     Who 

Will  speak  a  pope's  name,  as  they  rise  again  ? 
What  woman  or  what  child  will  count  him  true  ? 

What  dreamer,  praise  him  with  the  voice  or  pen  ? 
What  man  fight  for  him? — Pius  takes  his  due. 

Record  that  gain,  Mazzini ! — Yes,  but  first 
Set  down  tliy  people's  faults  ; — set  down  the  want 

Of  soul-conviction  ;  set  down  aims  dispersed, 
And  incoherent  means,  and  valor  scant 

Because  of  scanty  faith,  and  schisms  accursed, 
That  wrench  these  brother-hearts  from  covenant 

With  freedom  and  each  other.     Set  down  this. 
And  this,  and  see  to  overcome  it  when 

The  seasons  bring  the  fruits  thou  wilt  not  misR 
If  wary.      Let  no  cry  of  patriot  men 

Distract  thee  from  the  stern  anal^^sis 
Of  masses  who  cry  only  !  keep  thy  ken 

Clear  as  thy  soul  is  virtuous.     Heroes'  blood 
Splashed  np  against  thy  noble  brow  in  Rome — 

Let  such  not  blind  thee  to  an  interlude 
Which  was  not  also  holy,  3'et  did  come 

''L'wixt  sacramental  actions — brotherhood, 
Despised  even  there,  and  something  of  the  doom 

Of  Kern  us,  in  the  trenches.     Listen  now — 
Rossi  died  silent  near  where  Cassar  died. 

He  did  not  say,  "  My  Brutus,  is  it  thou?" 
But  Italy  unquestioned  testified, 

"/killed  him! — /am  Brutus. — I  avow." 
A.t  which  the  Avhole  world's  laugh  of  scorn  replied, 

"  A  poor  maimed  copy  of  Brutus  !" 

Too  much  likc^ 
Indeed,  to  be  so  unlike  !  too  unskilled 

At  Philippi  and  the  honest  battle-pike, 
To  be  so  skilful  where  a  man  is  killed 

Near  Pompey's  statue,  and  the  daggers  strike 
At  unawares  i'  the  throat.     Was  thus  fulfilled 

An  omen  once  of  Michel  Angelo  ? — 
When  Marcus  Brutus  he  conceived  complete. 

And  strove  to  hurl  him  out  by  blow  on  blow 
Upon  the  marble,  at  Art's  thunderheat, 

Till  haply  (some  jire-shadow  rising  slow, 
Of  what  his  Italy  would  fancy  meet 


80.  CASA     aUIDI     WINDOWS 

To  be  called  Brutus)  straight  his  plastic  hand 
Fell  back  before  his  prophet-soul,  and  left 

A  fragment,  a  maimed  Brutus — but  more  grand 
Than  this,  so  named  at  Rome,  was  ! 

Let  thy  weft 

Present  one  woof  and  warp,  Mazzini  ! — stand 
With  no  man  liankering  for  a  dagger's  heft — 

No,  not  for  Italj'! — nor  stand  apart, 
No,  not  for  the  republic ! — from  those  pure, 

Brave  men  who  hold  the  level  of  thy  heart 
In  patriot  truth,  as  lover  and  as  doer, 

Albeit  they  will  not  follow  where  thou  art 
As  extreme  theorist.     Trust  and  distrust  fewer ; 

And  so  bind  strong  and  keep  unstained  tlie  cause 
Which  (God's  sign  granted),  war-trumps  newly  blown 

Shall  yet  annunciate  to  the  world's  applause 
But  now,  the  world  is  busy ;  it  has  grown 

A  Fair-going  world.      Imperial  England  draws 
The  flowing  ends  of  the  earth,  from  Fez,  Canton^ 

Delhi  and  Stockholm,  Athens  and  Madrid, 
The  Ilussias  and  the  vast  Americas, 

As  if  a  queen  drew  in  her  robes  amid 
Her  golden  cincture — isles,  peninsulas. 

Capes,  continents,  far  inland  countries  hid 
By  jasper-sands  and  hills  of  chrysopras. 

All  trailing  in  their  splendors  through  the  door 
Of  the  gorgeous  Crystal  Palace.     Every  nation, 

To  every  other  nation  strange  of  3'ore, 
Gives  face  to  face  the  civic  salutation, 

And  holds  up  in  a  proud  right  hand  before 
That  congress,  the  best  work  which  she  cau  fashion 

By  her  best  means.     "  These  corals,  will  you  pleasa 
To  match  against  your  oaks  ?     They  grow  as  fast 

Within  my  wilderness  of  perfect  seas." — 
"  This  diamond  stared  upon  me  as  I  passed 

(As  a  live  god's  eye  from  a  marble  frieze) 
Along  a  dark  of  diamonds.     Is  it  classed  ?'' — 

"  I  wove  these  stuffs  so  subtly  that  the  gold 
Swims  to  the  surface  of  the  silk  like  cream. 

And  curdles  to  fair  patterns.     Ye  behold  !" — 
"  These  delicatest  muslins  rather  seem 

Than  be,  you  think?      Nay,    touch  them  and  be 
bold, 
Thoutih  such  veiled  Chakhi's  face  in  Hafiz'  dream." — 

"  These  carpets — _you  walk  slow  on  them  like  kings, 
Inaudible  like  spirits,  while  your  foot 


CAS  A     QUID  I      WINDOWS.  81 

Dips  deep  in  velvet  roses  and  sucli  things." — 
■  "Even  ApoUonius  might  commend  this  flute.* 

The  music,  vvindiug  through  tlie  stops,  npsprinjfs 
To  make  the  player  very  rich  !  compute." — 

"  Here's  goblet-glass,  to  take  in  with  your  wine 
The  very  sun  its  grapes  were  ripened  under  ! 

Drink  light  and  juice  together,  and  each  fine." — 
"This  model  of  a  steamship  moves  your  wonder? 

You  should  behold  it  crusliing  down  the  brine, 
Like  a  blind  Jove,  who  feels  his  way  with  thunder." 

"  Here's  sculpture  !  Ah,  we  live  too  !  why  not  throw 
Our  life  into  our  marbles?     Art  has  place 

For  other  artists  after  Angelo." — 
"I  tried  to  paint  out  here  a  natural  face; 

For  nature  includes  Raftael,  as  we  know, 
Not  Raffael  nature.     Will  it  help  my  case?"— 

"  Methinks  you  will  not  match  this  steel  of  ours  !''— 
"  Nor  you  this  porcelain  !     One  might  dream  the  clay 

Retained  in  it  the  larvae  of  the  flowers. 
They  bud  so,  round  the  cup,  the  old  spring  way." — 

"  Nor  you  these  carven  woods,  where  birds  in  bowers 
With  twisting  snakes  and  climbing  cupids,  play." 

0  Magi  of  the  east  and  of  the  west. 
Your  incense,  gold,  and  myrrh  are  excellent ! — 

What  gifts  for  Christ,  then,  bring  ye  with  the  rest? 
Your  hands  have  worked  well.     Is  your  courage  spent 

Jn  handwork  only  ?     Have  you  nothing  best, 
Which  generous  souls  may  perfect  and  present, 

And  He  shall  thank  the  givers  for  ?  no  light 
Of  teaching,  liberal  nations,  for  the  poor, 

Who  sit  in  darkness  when  it  is  not  night? 
No  cure  for  wicked  children  ?     Christ — no  cure  ! 

No  help  for  women,  sobbing  out  of  sight 
Because  men  made  the  laws  ?  no  brothel-lure 

Burnt  out  by  popular  lightnings  ? — Hast  thou  found 
No  remedy,  my  England,  for  such  woes? 

No  outlet,  Austria,  for  the  scourged  and  bound, 
No  entrance  for  the  exiled  ?  no  repose, 

Russia,  for  knouted  Poles  worked  underground, 
And  gentle  ladies  bleached  among  the  snows  ? — 

No  mercy  for  the  slave,  America? — 
No  hope  for  Rome,  free  France,  chivalric  France  ? — 

*  Philostratus  relates  of  ApoUonius  how  he  objected  to  the 
musical  instrument  of  Linus  the  Rhodian,  that  it  could  not  enrich 
or  beautify.  The  history  of  music  in  our  day,  would  satisfy  the 
philosopher  on  one  point  at  least. 


52  CASA     aUIDI     WINDOWS. 

Alas,  great  nations  Lave  great  shames,  I  say 
No  pity,  0  wDrld,  no  tender  utterance 

Of  benediction,  and  pra3'ers  stretched  this  way 
For  poor  Italia,  baffled  I)}'  mischance  ? — 

0  gracious  nations,  give  some  ear  to  me! 
You  all  go  to  your  Fair,  and  I  am  one 

Who  at  the  roadside  of  humanit}' 
Beseech  your  alms — God's  justice  to  be  done. 

So,  prosper ! 

In  the  name  of  Italy, 
Meantime,  her  patriot  dead  have  benison 

They  only  have  done  well — and,  what  the}'  did 
Being'perfect,  it  shall  triumph.     Let  them  slumber. 

No  king  of  Egypt  in  a  pyramid 
fs  safer  from  oblivion,  though  he  number 

Full  seventy  cerements  for  a  coverlid. 
These  Dead  be  seeds  of  life,  and  shall  encumber 

The  sad  heart  of  the  land  until  it  loose 
The  clammy  clods  and  let  out  the  spring  growth 

In  beautific  green  through  ever,y  bruise. 
The  tyrant  should  take  heed  to  what  he  doth, 

Since  every  victim-carrion  turns  to  use. 
And  drives  a  chariot,  like  a  god  made  wroth. 

Against  each  piled  injustice.     A}-,  the  least, 
Dead  for  Italia,  not  in  vain  has  died. 

Though  man}'  vainly,  ere  life's  struggle  ceased. 
To  mad  dissimilar  ends  have  swerved  aside  ; 

Each  grave  hei-  nationalit}-  has  pierced 
By  its  own  majestic  breadth,  and  fortified 

And  pinned  it  deeper  to  the  soil.     Forlorn 
Of  thanks,  be,  therefore,  no  one  of  these  graves  ! 

Xot  Hers — who,  at  her  husband's  side,  in  scorn, 
Outfaced  the  wliistling  shot  and  hissing  waves. 

Until  she  felt  her  little  babe  unborn 
Recoil  within  her,  from  the  violent  staves 

And  bloodhounds  of  the  world — at  which,  her  life 
Dropt  inward  from  her  eyes  and  followed  it 

Beyond  the  hunters.     Garibaldi's  wife 
And  child  died  so.     And  now,  the  sea-weeds  fit 

Her  body  like  a  proper  shroud  and  coif, 
And  raurmuroush'  the  ebbing  waters  grit 

The  little  pebbles  wMiere  she  lies  interred 
In  the  sea-sand.     Perhaps,  ere  dying  thus. 

She  looked  up  in  his  face  (which  never  stirred 
From  its  clenched  ansuish)  as  to  make  excuse 


CAS  A     GUIDI     WINDOWS.  gfl 

For  leaving  liim  for  his,  if  so  she  erred. 
lie  well  remembers  that  she  could  not  choose. 

A  memorable  grave  !     Another  is 
At  Genoa.     There,  a  king  may  fltlj'  lie, 

"Who  Inirsting  that  heroic  heart  of  his 
A  t  lost  Xovara,  that  he  could  not  die, 

(Though  thrice  into  the  cannon's  eyes  for  this 
He  plunged  his  shuddering  steed,  and  felt  the  sky 

Keel  back  between  the  fire  shocks)  stripped  away 
The  ancestial  ermine  ere  the  smoke  had  cleared, 

And,  naked  to  the  soul,  that  none  might  say 
His  kingship  covered  what  was  base  and  bleared 

With  treason,  went  out  straight  an  exile,  j'ea. 
An  exiled  patriot.    Let  him  be  revered. 

Yea,  verily,  Charles  Albert  has  died  well; 
And  if  he  lived  not  all  so,  as  one  spoke. 

The  sin  pass  softly  with  the  passing  bell. 
For  he  was  shriven,  I  think,  in  cannon-smoke, 

And,  taking  olf  his  crown,  made  visible 
A  hero's  forehead.     Shaking  Austria's  yoke 

He  shattered  his  own  hand  and  heart.    "  So  best/' 
His  last  words  were  upon  his  lonely  bed, 

"  I  do  not  end  like  popes  and  dukes  at  least — 
Thank  God  for  it."     And  now  that  he  is  dead, 

Admitting  it  is  proved  and  manifest 
That  he  was  worthy,  with  a  discrowned  head, 

To  measure  heights  with  patriots,  let  them  stand 
Beside  the  man  in  his  Oporto  shroud. 

And  each  vouchsafe  to  take  him  b}^  the  hand. 
And  kiss  him  on  the  cheek,  and  sa}^  aloud — 

"  Thou,  too,  hast  suffered  for  our  native  land  ! 
My  brother,  thou  art  one  of  us  !  be  proud." 

Still,  graves,  when  Haly  is  talked  upon. 
Still,  still,  the  patriot's  tomb,  the  stranger's  hate. 

Still  Niobe  !  still  fainting  in  the  sun, 
By  whose  most  dazzling  arrows  violate 

Her  beauteous  offspring  perished  !  has  she  won 
Nothiufj:  but  garlands  for  the  graves,  from  Fate? 

Nothing  but  death-songs  ? — Yes,  be  it  understood 
Life  throbs  in  noble  Piedmont!   while  the  feet 

Of  Rome's  clay  image,  dabbled  soft  in  blood, 
Grow  flat  with  dissolution,  and  as  meet. 

Will  soon  be  shovelled  off  like  other  mud, 
To  leave  the  passage  free  in  church  and  street. 

And  I,  who  first  took  hope  up  in  this  song, 
Because  a  child  was  singing  one  .  .  .  behold, 


84  CAS  A     GUIDI     WINDOWS. 

4 

The  hope  and  omen  were  not,  haply,  wrono-I 
Poets  arc  soothsayers  still,  like  those  of  old* 

Who  studied  flights  of  doves — and  creatures  young 
And  tender,  mighty  meanings,  may  unfold. 

The  sun  strikes,  through  the  Avindows,  up  the  floor- 
Stand  out  in  it,  my  own  young  Florentine, 

Not  two  3'ears  old,  and  let  me  see  thee  more  ! 
It  grows  along  thy  amber  curls,  to  shine 

Brighter  than  elsewhere.    Now,  look  straight  before, 
And  flx  thy  brave  blue  English  ej-es  on  mine, 

And  from  my  soul,  which  fronts  the  future'  so, 
With  unabashed  and  unabated  gaze, 

Teach  me  to  hope  for,  what  the  angels  know 
When  they  smile  clear  as  thou  dost.  Down  God's  ways 

With  just  alighted  feet,  between  the  snow 
And  snowdrops,  where  a  little  lamb  may  graze, 

Thou  hast  no  fear,  my  lamb,  about  the  road, 
Albeit  in  our  vain  glory  we  assume 

That,  less  than  we  have,  thou  hast  learnt  of  God. 
Stand  out,  my  blue-eyed  prophet! — thou,  to  whom 

The  earliest  world-day  light  that  ever  flowed, 
Through  Casa  Guidi  windows,  chanced  to  come  I 

Now  shake  the  glittering  nimbus  of  th}-  hair, 
And  be  God's  Avitness  that  the  elemental 

New  springs  of  life  are  gushing  everywhere 
To  cleanse  the  water-courses,  and  prevent  all 

Concrete  obstructions  which  infest  the  air  ! 
That  earth's  alive,  and  gentle  or  ungentle 

Motions  within  her,  signify  but  growth ! — 
The  ground  swells  greenest  o'er  the  laboring  moles 

Howe'er  the  uneas}'  world  is  vexed  and  wroth, 
Toung  children,  lifted  high  on  parent  souls, 

Look  round  them  with  a  smile  upon  the  mouth, 
And  take  for  music  every  bell  that  tolls  ; 

(Who  said  we  should  be  better  if  like  these  ?) 
But  we  sit  murmuring  for  the  future  though 

Posterity  is  smiling  on  our  knees, 
Convicting  us  of  folly.  Let  us  go — 

We  will  trust  God.     The  blank  interstices 
Men  take  for  ruins,  He  will  build  into 

With  pillared  marbles  rare,  or  knit  across 
With  generous  arches,  till  the  fane's  complete 

This  world  has  no  perdition,  if  some  loss. 
Such  cheer  I  gather  from  thy  smiling.  Sweet! 

The  self-same  cherub-faces  which  emboss 
The  Yail,  lean  inward  to  the  Mercy-seat. 


NAPOLEON  III.  IN  ITALY. 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


These  poems*  (from  pages  515  to  541)  were  written  under  thu 
pressure  of  the  events  they  indicate,  after  a  residence  in  Italy  of 
BO  many  years,  that  tlie  present  triumph  of  great  principles  is 
heightened  to  the  writer's  feelings  by  the  disastrous  issue  of  thr 
last  movement,  witnessed  from  "  Casa  Guida  windows"  in  1849. 
Yet,  if  the  verses  should  appear  to  English  readers  too  pungeutly 
rendered  to  admit  of  a  patriotic  respect  to  the  Englisli  sense  of 
things,  I  will  not  excuse  nij-sclf  on  such  grounds,  nor  on  tho 
ground  of  my  attachment  to  the  Italian  people,  and  my  admiration 
of  their  heroic  constancy  and  union.  What  I  have  written  has 
simply  been  written  because  I  love  truth  and  justice  quand  mgme, 
"more  than  Plato"  and  Plato's  country,  more  than  Dante  and 
Dante's  country,  more  even  than  Shakspeare  and  Shakspeare's 
country. 

And  if  patriotism  means  the  flattery  of  one's  nation  in  every 
case,  then  the  patriot,  take  it  as  you  please,  is  merely  a  courtier, 
which  I  am  not,  though  I  have  written  "Napoleon  III.  in  Italy." 
It  is  time  to  limit  the  significance  of  certain  terms,  or  to  enlarge 
the  significance  of  certain  things.  Nationality  is  excellent  in  its 
place;  and  tlie  instinct  of  self-love  is  the  root  of  a  man,  which 
will  develop  into  sacrificial  virtues.  But  all  the  virtues  are 
means  and  uses  ;  and,  if  we  hinder  their  tendency  to  growth  and 
expansion,  we  both  destroy  them  as  virtues,  and  degrade  them  to 
that  rankt^st  species  of  corruption  reserved  for  the  most  noble 
organizations.  For  instance,  non-intervention  in  the  affairs  of 
neighboring  states  is  a  high  political  virtue  ;  but  non-intervention 
does  not  mean,  passing  by  on  the  other  side  when  your  neighbor 
falls  among  thieves — or  Phariseeism  would  recover  it  from  Chris- 
tianity. Freedom  itself  is  virtue,  as  well  as  privilege  ;  but  freedom 
of  the  seas  does  not  mean  piracy,  nor  freedom  of  the  land,  bri- 
gandage ;  nor  freedom  of  the  senate,  freedom  to  cudgel  a  dissident 
member,  nor  freedom  of  the  press,  freedom  to  calumniate  and  lie. 
So,  if  patriotism  be  a  virtue  indeed,  it  cannot  mean  an  exclusive 
devotion  to  one's  country's  interest — for  that  is  only  another  form 
of  devotion  to  personal  interests,  of  family  interests,  of  provincial 
interests,  all  of  which,  if  not  driven  past  themselves,  are  vulgar 
and  immoral  objects.  Let  us  put  away  the  little  Pedlingtonism 
unworthy  of  a  great  nation,  and  too  prevalent  among  us.  If  the 
man  who  does  not  look  beyond  this  natural  life  is  of  a  somewhat 
narrow  order,  what  must  be  the  man  who  does  not  look  beyond 
his  own  frontier  or  his  own  sea? 

I  confess  that  I  d^eam  of  tlie  day  when  an  English  statesman 
ehall  arise  with  a  heart  too  large  for  England,  having  courage,  ia 

*  Published  originally  in  England  under  the  title  of  "Poonis  Befuie  Congress." 


S6  NAPOLEON     III.     IN     ITALY. 

the  face  of  his  countrymen,  to  assert  of  some  suggestive  policy — 
"  This  is  good  for  your  trade ,  this  is  necessary  for  your  domi- 
nation;  but  it  will  vex  a  people  hard  by;  it  will  hurt  a  people 
farther  off;  it  will  profit  nothing  to  the  general  humanity;  there- 
fore, away  with  it  1— it  is  not  for  you  or  for  me."  When  a  British 
minister  dares  to  speak  so,  and  when  a  British  public  applauds 
him  speaking,  then  shall  the  nation  be  so  glorious,  that  lier  praise, 
instead  of  exploding  from  within,  from  loud  civic  mouths,  shall 
come  to  her  from  without,  as  all  worthy  praise  must,  from  tln' 
alliances  she  has  fostered,  and  from  the  populations  she  has 
saved. 

And  poets,  who  write  of  the  events  of  that  time,  shall  not  need 
to  justify  themselves  in  prefaces,  for  ever  so  little  jarring  of  the 
national  sentiment  imputable  to  their  rhymes. 

Rome,  Februari/,  1860. 


NAPOLEON  III.  IN  ITALY. 

Emperor,  Emperor ! 
From  the  centre  to  the  shore. 
From  the  Seine  back  to  the  Rhine, 
Stood  eiglit  millions  up  and  swore 
By  their  manhood's  right  divine 

So  to  elect  and  legislate, 
This  man  should  renew  the  line 
Broken  in  a  strain  of  fate 
And  leagued  kings  at  Waterloo, 
When  the  people's  hands  let  go. 

Emperor 

Evermore. 

With  a  universal  shout 
They  took  the  old  regalia  out 
From  an  open  grave  that  day  ; 
From  a  grave  that  would  not  close 
Where  the  first  Napoleon  lay 

Expectant,  in  repose, 
As  still  as  Merlin,  with  his  conquering  face 
Turned  up  in  its  unquenchable  appeal 
To  men  and  heroes  of  the  advancing  race, 

Prepare  to  set  the  seal 
Of  what  has  been  on  what  shall  be. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 

The  thinkers  stood  aside 

To  let  the  nation  act. 
Some  hated  the  new-constituted  fact 
Of  empire,  as  pride  treading  on  their  pride. 


NAPOLEON     III.     IN     ITALY.  Si 

Some  quailed,  lest  what  was  poisonous  in  the  past 
Should  graft  itself  in  that  Druidic  bough 

On  this  green  now. 
Some  cursed,  because  at  last 
The  open  heavens  to  which  they  had  look'd  in  vain 
For  many  a  golden  fall  of  marvellous  rain 

Were  closed  in  brass  ;  and  some 
Wept  on  because  a  gone  thing  could  not  come  ; 
And  some  were  silent,  doubting  all  things  for 

That  popular  conviction — evermore 

Emperor. 

That  day  I  did  not  hate 

Nor  doubt,  nor  quail,  nor  curse. 

1,  reverencing  the  people,  did  not  bate 

My  reverence  of  their  deed  and  oracle, 

Nor  vainly  prate 

Of  better  and  of  worse 
Against  the  great  conclusion  of  their  will. 

And  yet,  0  voice  and  verse. 
Which  God  set  in  me  to  acclaim  and  sing 
Conviction,  exaltation,  aspiration, 
We  gave  no  music  to  the  patent  thing, 
Nor  spared  a  holj^  rhythm  to  throb  and  swim 

About  tlie  name  of  him 
Translated  to  the  sphei'e  of  domination 

By  democratic  passion  ! 

I  was  not  used,  at  least, 

Nor  can  be,  now  or  then, 

To  stroke  the  ermine  beast 

On  any  kind  of  throne, 
(Though  builded  by  a  nation  for  its  own,) 
And  swell  the  surging  choir  for  kings  of  men— 
"  Emperor 
Evermore." 

But  now.  Napoleon,  now 
That,  leaving  far  liehind  the  purple  throng 

Of  vulgar  monarchs,  thou 

Tread'st  higher  in  thy  deed 

Than  stair  of  throne  can  lead 

To  help  in  the  hour  of  wrong 
The  broken  hearts  of  nations  to  be  strong — 
Now,  lifted  as  thou  art 
To  the  level  of  pure  song, 

We  stand  to  meet  thee  on  these  Alpine  snows  I 
And  while  the  palpitating  peaks  break  out 


58  NAPOLEON     III.      IN     ITALY. 

Ecstatic  from  somnamhulai'  repose 
With  answers  to  the  presence  and  the  shout,  . 
^Ve,  poets  of  the  j^eople,  who  take  iiart 
\yith  elemental  justice,  natural  right. 

Join  in  our  echoes  also,  nor  refrain. 
We  meet  thee,  0  Napoleon,  at  this  height 
At  last,  and  find  thee  great  enough  to  praise. 
Receive  the  poet's  chrism,  which  smells  beyond 

The  priest's,  and  pass  thy  wa^s  ; — 
An  English  poet  warns  tliee  to  maintain 
God's  word,  not  England's  : — let  His  truth  be  true 
And  all  men  liars!  with  His  trutli  respond 
To  all  men's  lie.     Exalt  the  sword  and  smite 
On  that  long  anvil  of  the  Apennine 
Where  Austria  forged  the  Italian  chain  in  view 
Of  seven  consenting  nations,  sparks  of  fine 

Admonitory'  light, 
Till  men's  eyes  wink  before  convictions  new. 
Flash  in  God's  justice  to  the  world's  amaze, 
Sublime  Deliverer! — after  man3^  days 
Found  worth}'  of  the  deed  thou  art  come  to  do- 
Emperor 
Evermore. 

But  Haly,  my  Italy, 

Can  it  last,  this  gleam  ? 

Can  she  live  and  be  strong, 

Or  is  it  another  dream 

Like  the  rest  we  have  dreamed  so  long  ? 

And  shall  it,  must  it  be, 
That  after  the  battle-cloud  has  broken 
She  will  die  off  again 
Like  the  rain,    • 
Or  like  a  poet's  song 
Sung  of  her,  sad  at  the  end 
Because  her  name  is  Italy — 
Die  and  count  no  friend  ? 
It  is  true — may  it  be  spoken. 
That  she  who  lias  lain  so  still, 
With  a  wound  in  her  breast, 
And  a  flower  in  her  hand. 
And  a  grave-stone  under  her  head, 
While  every  nation  at  will 
Beside  her  has  dared  to  stand 
And  flout  her  with  pity  and  scorn. 
Saying,  "  She  is  at  rest, 


NAPOLEON     III.      IN     ITALY  n 

She  is  fair,  she  is  dead, 

And,  leaving  room  in  her  stead 

To  us  who  are  later  l)orn, 

This  is  certainly  best !" 

Saying,  "Alas,  she  is  fair 

Yery  fair,  l)iit  dead, 

And  so  we  have  room  for  the  race." 

— ('an  it  lie  true,  be  true, 

That  she. lives  anew? 

That  she  rises  up  at  the  shout  of  her  sons, 

At  the  trumpet  of  France, 

And  lives  anew  ? — is  it  true 

That  she  has  not  removed  in  a  trance, 

As  in  Forty-eight? 

When  her  eyes  were  troubled  with  blood 

Till  she  knew  not  friend  from  foe. 

Till  her  hand  was  caught  in  a  strait 

Of  her  cerement  and  baffled  so 

From  doing  the  deed  she  would  ; 

And  her  weak  foot  stumbled  across 

The  grave  of  a  king. 

And  down  "^-be  dropt  at  heavy  loss, 

And  we  gloomily-  covered  her  face  and  said, 

"  We  have  dreamed  the  thing  ; 

She  is  not  alive,  but  dead." 

Now,  shall  w'e  say 

Our  Italy  lives  indeed  ? 

And  if  it  were  not  for  the  beat  and  bray 

Of  drum  and  trump  of  martial  men. 

Should  we  feel  the  underground  heave  and  strain, 

Where  heroes  left  their  dust  as  a  seed 

Sure  to  emerge  one  day  ? 
And  if  it  were  not  for  the  rhythmic  march 
Of  France  and  Piedmont's  double  hosts, 

Should  we  hear  the  ghosts 
Thrill  tlu-ough  ruined  aisle  and  arch. 
Throb  along  the  frescoed  wall, 
Whisper  an  oath  by  that  divine 
They  left  in  picture,  book  and  stone 
That  Italy  is  not  dead  at  all  ? 
Ay,  if  it  were  not  for  the  tears  in  our  eyes, 
These  tears  of  a  sudden  passionate  joy, 

Should  we  see  her  arise 
From  the  place  where  the  wicked  are  overthrown, 

Italy,  Ital)  ?  loosed  at  length 


>C  NAPOLEON      III.      IN      ITALY. 

From  the  tyrant's  thrall, 
Pale  and  calm  in  her  strength  ? 
Pale  as  the  silver  cross  of  Savoy 
"When  the  hand  that  bears  the  flag  is  brave, 
And  not  a  breath  is  stirring,  save 

AVhat  is  blown 
Over  the  war-trump's  lip  of  brass, 
Ere  Garibaldi  forces  the  pass  ! 

A}^  it  is  so,  even  so. 

Ay,  and  it  shall  be  so. 
Each  broken  stone  that  long  ago 
She  flung  behind  her  as  she  went 
In  discouragement  and  bewilderment 
Through  the  cairns  of  Time,  and  missed  lier  way 

Between  to-day  and  yesterday, 

Up  springs  a  living  man. 
And  each  man  stands  with  his  face  in  the  light 

Of  his  own  drawn  sword, 
Ready  to  do  what  a  hero  can. 
Wall  to  sap,  or  river  to  ford. 
Cannon  to  front,  or  foe  to  pursue, 
Still  ready  to  do,  and  sworn  to  be  trat. 

As  a  man  and  a  patriot  can. 
Piedmontese,  Neai)olitan, 
Lombard,  Tuscan,  Romagnole, 
Each  man's  body  having  a  soul — 
Count  how  man^^  they  stand, 
All  of  them  sons  of  the  land. 
Every  live  man  there 
Allied  to  a  dead  man  below, 
And  the  deadest  with  blood  to  spare 
To  quicken  a  living  hand 
In  case  it  should  ever  be  slow. 
Count  how  niauy  they  come 
To  the  beat  of  Piedmont's  drum, 
With  faces  keener  and  gra^'er 
Than  swords  of  the  Austrian  slayer, 
All  set  against  the  foe. 

"  Emperor 

Evermore." 

Out  of  the  dust,  where  they  ground  them, 
Out  of  the  holes,  where  they  dogged  them, 
Out  of  the  hulks,  where  they  wound  them 
In  iron,  tortured  and  flogged  them  ; 
Out  of  the  streets,  where  they  chased  them, 


NAPOLEON     III.      IN     ITALY  ;il 

Taxed  them  and  then  bayoneted  them — 
Out  of  the  homes,  where  they  spied  on  them, 
(Using  their  daughters  and  wives,) 
Out  of  the  church,  where  the3'  fretted  them, 
Rotted  their  souls  and  debased  them, 
Trained  tliem  to  answer  with  knives, 
Tlien  cursed  them  all  at  their  pra^-ers  ! — 
Out  of  cold  lands,  not  theirs, 
IVhere  they  exiled  them,  starved  them,  lied  on  them  ; 
Back  they  come  like  a  Avind,  in  vain 
Cramped  up  in  the  hills,  that  roars  its  road 
The  stronger  into  the  open  plain  ; 
Or  like  a  Qre  that  burns  the  hotter 
And  longer  for  the  crust  of  cinder. 
Serving  better  the  ends  of  the  potter; 
Or  like  a  restrained  word  of  God, 
Fulfilling  itself  by  what  seems  to  hinder. 

"  Emperor 

Evermore." 

Shout  for  France  and  Savo}' ! 
Shout  for  the  helper  and  doer. 
Shout  for  the  good  sword's  ring. 
Shout  for  the  thought  still  truer. 
Shout  for  the  spirits  at  large 
Who  passed  for  the  dead  this  spring, 
Whose  living  glory  is  sure. 
Shout  for  France  and  Savoy! 
Shout  for  the  council  and  charge  ! 
Shout  for  the  head  of  Cavour  ; 
And  shout  for  tne  heart  of  a  King 
That's  great  with  a  nation's  joy. 
Shout  for  France  and  Savoy  ! 

Take  up  the  child,  Mac  Mahon,  though 

Th}'  hand  be  red 

From  Magenta's  dead, 

And  riding  on,  in  front  of  the  troop. 

In  the  dust  of  the  whirlwind  of  war 
Through  the  gate  of  the  city  of  Milan,  stoop 
And  take  up  the  child  to  thy  saddle-bow, 
Xor  fear  the  touch  as  soft  as  a  flower 

Of  his  smile  as  clear  as  a  star  1 
Thou  hast  a  right  to  the  child,  we  say, 
Since  the  women  are  weeping  for  joy  as  those 
Who,  by  thy  help  and  from  this  day, 

Shall  be  happy  mothers  indeed 


02  NAPOLEON     III.      IN     ITALY. 

They  are  raining  flowers  from  terrace  and  roof: 

Take  up  the  flower  in  the  child. 
While  the  shont  goes  up  of  a  nation  freed 

And  heroically  self-reconciled, 
Till  the  snow  on  that  peaked  Alp  aloof 
Starts,  as  feeling  God's  finger  anew, 
And  all  those  cold  white  marble  fires 
Of  mounting  saints  on  the  Duorao-spires 
Flicker  against  the  Blue. 

"Emperor 

Evermore." 

Ay,  it  is  He, 
Who  rides  at  the  King's   right  hand  ! 
Leave  room  to  his  horse  and  draw  to  the  side, 
Nor  press  too  near  in  tlie  ecstasy 
Of  a  newly-delivered  impassioned  land 

He  is  moved,  you  see, 
He  who  has  done  it  all. 
They  call  it  a  cold  stern  face ; 

But  this  is  Ital}'^ 
Who  rises  up  to  her  place  ! — 
For  this  he  fought  in  his  youth. 
Of  this  he  dreamed  in  the  past; 
The  lines  of  the  resolute  mouth 
Tremble  a  little  at  last. 
Cry,  he  has  done  it  all! 

"  Emperor 

Evermore." 

It  is  not  strange  that  he  did  it. 
Though  the  deed  may  seem  to  strain 
To  the  wonderful,  unpermitted, 
For  such  as  lead  and  reign. 
But  he  is  strange,  this  man  : 
The  people's  instinct  found  him 
(A  wind  in  the  dark  that  ran 
Through  a  chink  where  was  no  door). 
And  elected  him  and  crowned  him 

Emperor 

Evermore. 

Autocrat?  let  them  scoff, 

Who  fail  to  comprehend 
That  a  ruler  incarnate  of 

The  people,  must  transcend - 
All  common  king-born  kings. 
The  subterranean  springs 


NAPOLEON     III.      IN     ITALY. 

A  sudden  outlet  winning, 

Have  special  virtues  to  spend. 

The  people's  blood  runs  through  him, 

Dilates  from  head  to  foot, 

Creates  him  absolute. 

And  from  this  great  beginning 

Evokes  a  greater  end 

To  justify  and  renew  him — 

Emperor 

Evermore. 

What!  did  an3' maintain 

That  God  or  the  people  (think  I^ 

Could  make  a  marvel  in  vain  ? — 

Out  of  th-!  water-jar  there, 

Draw  wine  that  none  could  drink  ? 

Is  this  a  man  like  the  rest, 

This  miracle,  made  unaware 

By  a  rapture  of  popular  air. 

And  cai.ght  to  the  place  that  was  best  f 

You  think  he  could  barter  and  cheat 

As  vulgar  diplomates  use. 

With  the  people's  heart  in  his  breast  ? 

Prate  a  lie  into  shape 

Lest  truth  should  cumber  the  road  ; 

Pla_y  at  the  fast  and  loose 

Till  the  world  is  strangled  with  tape; 

Maim  the  soul's  complete 

To  fit  the  hole  of  a  toad  ; 

And  filch  the  dogman's  meat 

To  feed  the  oflTspViug  of  God  ? 

Nay,  but  he,  this  wonder, 

He  cannot  palter  or  prate. 

Though  many  around  him  and  under, 

With  intellects  trained  to  the  curve 

Distrust  him  in  spirit  and  nerve 

Because  his  meaning  is  straight. 

Measure  him  ere  he  depart 

With  those  who  have  governed  and  led  ; 

Larger  so  much  by  the  heart, 

Larger  so  much  by  the  head. 

Emperor 

Evermore. 

ETe  holds  that,  consenting  or  dissident, 
Nations  must  move  with  the  time: 


Oil 


94  NAPOLEON     III.     IN     ITALY 

Assumes  that  crime  with  a  precedent 
Doubles  the  guilt  of  the  crime  ; 

— Denies  that  a  slaver's  bond, 
Or  a  treaty  signed  by  knaves, 

{Quorum  magna  pars  and  beyond 

Was  one  of  an  honest  name) 

Gives  an  inexpugnable  claim 

To  abolishing  men  into  slaveSw 
Emperor 
Evermore. 

He  will  not  swagger  nor  boast 

Of  his  country's  meeds,  in  a  tone 
Missnitins:  a  great  man  most 

If  such  should  speak  of  his  own  ;^ 
Nor  will  he  act,  on  her  side. 

From  motives  baser,  indeed, 
Than  a  man  of  a  noble  pride 

Can  avow  for  himself  at  need  ; 
Never,  for  lucre  or  laurels, 

Or  custom,  though  such  should  be  rife 
Adapting  the  smaller  morals 

To  measure  the  larger  life. 
He,  though  the  merchants  persuade. 

And  the  soldiers  are  eager  for  strife 
Fiiids  not  his  country  in  quarrels 

Only  to  find  her  in  ti'ade — 
While  still  he  accords  her  such  honor 

As  never  to  flinch  for  her  sake 
Where  men  put  service  upon  her, 

Found  h*^avy  to  undertake 
And  scarcely  like  to  be  paid  : 

Believing  a  nation  may  act 

Unselfishly — shiver  a  lance 
(As  the  least  of  her  sons  may,  in  fact"* 

And  not  for  a  cause  of  finance. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 

Great  is  he. 
Who  uses  his  greatness  for  all. 
His  name  shall  stand  perpetually 

As  a  name  to  applaud  and  cherish, 
Not  only  within  tlie  civic  wall 
For  the  loyal,  but  also  without 

For  the  generous  and  free. 

Just  is  he, 


THEDANCE.  95 

Who  is  just  for  the  popular  due 

As  well  as  the  private  debt. 
The  praise  of  nations  ready  to  perish 

Fall  on  hiiti — crown  him  in  view 

Of  tyrants  caught  in  the  net, 
And  statesmen  dizzy  with  fear  and  doubt! 
And  though,  because  they  are  many, 

And  he  is  merely  one. 
And  nations  selfish  and  cruel 
Heap  up  the  inquisitor's  fuel 
To  kill  the  body  of  high  intents, 
And  burn  great  deeds  from  their  place, 
Till  this,  the  greatest  of  anj, 
May  seem  imperfectly  done  ; 
Courage,  whowever  circumvents! 
Courage,  courage,  whoever  is  base  1 
The  soul  of  a  high  intent,  be  it  known. 
Can  die  no  more  than  any  soul 
Which  God  keeps  by  liim  under  the  throne  ; 
And  this,  at  whatever  interim, 
Shall  live,  and  be  consummated 
Into  the  being  of  deeds  made  whole. 
Courage,  courage  !  happy  is  he, 
Of  whom  (himself  among  the  dead 
And  silent),  this  word  shall  be  said  ; 
— Tliat  he  might  have  had  the  world  with  him, 
But  chose  to  side  with  suffering  men. 
And  had  the  world  against  him  when 
He  came  to  deliver  Italy. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 


THE  DANCE. 

Yov  remember  down  at  Florence  our  Cascine, 

Where  the  people  on  the  feast-days  walk  and  dri\'e, 

And,  through  the  trees,   long-drawn  in  many  a  green 
way, 
O'er-roofing  hum  and  murmur  like  a  hive, 
The  river  and  the  mountains  look  alive  ? 

you  remember  the  piazzone  there,  the  stand-place 
Of  carriages  a-brim  with  Florence  Beauties, 

Who  lean  and  melt  to  music  as  the  band  plays, 
Or  smile  and  chat  with  some  one  who  a-foot  is. 
Or  on  horseback,  in  observance  of  male  duties  ? 


96  THEDANCE. 

'Tis  SO  pretty,  in  the  afternoons  of  summer, 
So  many  gracious  faces  brought  together  ! 

Call  it  rout,  or  call  it  concert,  tliey  have  come  here, 
In  the  floating  of  the  fan  and  of  the  feather. 
To  reciprocate  with  beauty  the  fine  weather. 

While  the  flower-girls  oifer  nosegays  (because  they  too 
Go  witli  other  sweets)  at  ever^-  carriage-door  ; 

Ilere,  by  shake  of  a  white  finger,  signed  away  to 
Some  next  buyer,  who  sits  buying  score  on  score, 
Piling  roses  upon  roses  evermore. 

And  last  season,  when  the  French  camp  had  its  station 
In  the  meadow-ground,  things  quickened  and  grew 
gayer 
Through  the  mingling  of  the  liberating  nation 

With  this  people  ;  groups  of  Frenchmen  everywhere. 
Strolling,  gazing,  judging  lightly  .    .   "  who  was 
fair." 

Then  the  noblest  lady. present  took  upon  her 
To  speak  nobly  from  her  carriage  for  the  rest; 

*'  Pray  these  officers  from  France  to  do  us  honor 
B3'  dancing  with  us  straightway." — The  request 
Was  gravelj'  apprehended  as  addressed. 

And  the  men  of  France  bareheaded,  bowing  lowly. 
Led  out  each  a  proud  signora  to  the  space 

Which  the  startled  ci'owd    had    rounded  for   them— 
slowly, 
Just  a  touch  of  still  emotion  in  his  face, 
Not  presuming,  through  the  symbol,  on  the  grace 

There  was  silence  in  the  people  :  some  lips  trembled, 
But  none  jested.     Broke  the  music,  at  a  glance : 

And  the  daughters  of  our  princes,  thus  assembled. 
Stepped  the  measure  with  the  gallant  sons  of  France. 
Hush  !  it  might  have  been  a  Mass,  and  not  a  dance. 

And  they  danced  there  till  the  blue  that  overskied  us 
Swooned  with  passion,  though  the  footing  seemed 
sedate  ; 

And  the  mountains,  heaving  mighty  hearts  beside  us, 
Sighed  a  rapture  in  a  shadow,  to  dilate, 
And  touch  the  holy  stone  whei'e  Dante  sate. 

Then  the  sons  of  France  bareheaded,  lowly  bowing, 

Led  the  ladies  back  where  kinsmen  of  the  south 
Stood,  received  them; — till,  with  burst  of  overflowing 


A     TALE     OF     VILLAFHANCA.  9"? 

Feeling  .  .  .  husbands,    brothers,    Florence's  male 

youth, 
Turned,  and  kissed  the  martial  strangers  mouth  to 

mouth. 

And  a  cry  went  up,  a  cry  from  all  that  people ! 
— You    have    heard   a   people    cheering,    3'ou    sup- 
pose, 
For   the    Member,    mayor  .  .  with  chorus    from  the 
steeple  ? 
This  was  different:  scarce  as  loud    perhaps,    (who 

knows  ?) 
For  we  saw  wet  eyes  around  us  ere  the  close. 

And  we  felt  as  if  a  nation,  too  long  borne  in 

By  hard  wrongers,  compreliending  in  such  attitude 

That  God  had  spoken  somewhere  since  the  morning, 
That  men  were  somehow  brothers,  by  no  platitude, 
Cried  exultant  in  great  wonder  and  free  gratitude. 


A  TALE  OF  YILLAFRANCA. 

TOLI)    IN   TUSCANY. 

My  little  son,  my  Florentine, 

Sit  down  beside  m^'  knee, 
And  I  will  tell  you  why  tlie  sign 

Of  joy  which  flushed  our  Italy, 
Has  faded  since  but  3'esternight ; 
And  why  your  Florence  of  delight 

Is  mourning  as  you  see. 

A  great  man  (who  was  crowned  one  day) 

Imagined  a  great  Deed  : 
He  shaped  it  out  of  cloud  and  clay, 

He  touched  it  finely  till  the  seed 
Possessed  the  flower:  from  heart  and  brain 
He  fed  it  with  large  thoughts  humane, 

To  help  a  people's  need. 

He  brought  it  out  into  the  sun — 

They  blessed  it  to  his  face : 
"  0  great  pure  Deed,  that  hast  undone 

So  man^'  bad  and  base  ! 
0  generous  Deed,  heroic  Deed, 
Come  forth,  be  perfected,  succeed, 

Deliver  by  God's  grace. 


98  A     TALE     OF     VILLAFRANCA. 

Then  sovereigns,  statesmen,  north  and  sout£«. 

Rose  up  in  wrath  and  fear. 
And  cried,  protesting  b}^  one  mouth, 

"  What  monster  have  we  here  ? 
A.  great  Deed  at  this  hour  of  day  ? 
A.  great  just  Deed — and  not  for' pay  ? 

Absurd — or  insincere. 

"  And  if  sincere,  the  heavier  blow 

In  that  case  we  shall  bear. 
For  Where's  our  blessed  "  status  quo," 

Our  holy  treaties,  where — 
Our  rights  to  sell  a  race,  or  buy, 
Protect  and  pillage,  occup}-, 

And  civilize  despair  ?" 

Some  muttered  that  the  great  Deed  meant 

A  great  pretext  to  sin  ; 
And  others,  the  pretext,  so  lent. 

Was  heinous  (to  begin). 
Volcanic  terms  of  "great"  and  "just?" 
Admit  such  tongues  of  flame,  the  crust 

Of  time  and  law  falls  in. 

• 

A  great  Deed  in  this  world  of  ours? 

Unheard  of  the  pretence  is : 
It  threatens  plainly  the  great  Powers ; 

Is  fatal  in  all  senses. 
A  just  deed  in  the  world  ? — call  out 
The  rifles  !  be  not  slack  about 

The  national  defences. 

And  many  murmured,  "  From  this  source 

What  red  blood  must  be  poured  !  " 
And  some  rejoined,  'Tis  even  worse  ; 

What  red  tape  is  ignored  !  " 
All  cursed  the  Doer  for  an  evil 
Called  here,  enlarging  on  the  Devil — 

There,  monkeying  the  Lord  ! 
Some  said,  it  could  not  be  explained, 

Some,  could  not  be  excused  ; 
And  others,  "  Leave  it  unresti*ained, 

Gehenna's  self  is  loosed." 
And  all  cried,  "  Crush  it,  maim  it,  gag  it  I 
Set  dog-toothed  lies  to  tear  it  ragged, 

Truncated  and  traduced  !  " 
But  He  stood  sad  before  the  sun, 

(The  peoples  felt  their  fate). 


•  While  every  roadside  Clirist  upon  liis  cross 
Huug  reddening  through  his  gory  wouuds  at  me.' 


A     COURT      LADY. 


99 


"  The  world  is  many — I  am  one  ; 

My  great  Deed  was  too  great. 
God's  fruit  of  justice  ripens  slow: 
Men's  souls  are  narrow  ;  let  them  grow. 

My  brothers,  we  must  wait," 


^ 


The  tale  is  ended,  child  of  mine,      ^   O 
Turned  graver  at  my  knee.  / 

They  say  your  eyes,  my  Florentine,     ^ 
Are  English:  it  may  be: 

And  yet  I've  marked  as  blue  a  pair 

Following  the  doves  across  the  square 
At  Venice  by  the  sea. 

Ah,  child  !  ah,  child  1  I  cannot  say 
A  word  more.     You  conceive 

The  reason  now,  why  just  to-day 
We  see  our  Florence  grieve. 

Ah  child,  look  up  into  the  sky! 

In  this  low  world,  where  great  Deeds  die, 
What  matter  if  we  live  ? 


•  I 


ly 


:•/'••'•• 

'''^'^'/7 

^''^^w. 


^/r 


//;- 
^^/' 


I. 


A  COURT  LADY. 

Her  hair  was  tawny  with  gold,  her  eyes  with  purple 

were  dark. 
Her  cheeks'  pale  opal  burnt  with  a  red  and  restless 

spark. 

Never  was  lady  of  Milan  ^lobler  in  name  and  in  race  ; 
Never  was  lady  of  Italy  fairer  to  see  in  the  face. 

Never  was   lady  on  earth  more  true  as  woman   and 

wife. 
Larger  in  judgment  and  instinct,  prouder  in  manners 

and  life. 

She  stood  in  the  early  morning,  and  said  to  her  maid- 
ens, "  Bring 

That  silken  robe  made  ready  to  wear  at  the  court  of 
the  king. 

"  Bring  me  the  clasps  of  diamond,  lucid,  clear  of  the 

mote, 
Clasp  me  the  large  at  the  waist,  and  clasp  me  the  small 

at  the  throat. 


100  A     COURT     LADY. 

"  Diamonds  to  fasten  the  hair,  and  diamonds  to  fasten 

the  sleeves, 
Laces  to  drop  from  their  ra^-s,  like  a  powder  of  snow 

from  the  eaves." 
Gorgeous  she  entered  the  sunlight  which  gathered  her 

up  in  a  flame, 
While,  straight  in  her  open  carriage,  she  to  the  hos- 
pital came. 
In  she  went  at  the  door,  and  gazing  from  end  to  end, 
"  Many  and  low  are  the  pallets,  but  each  is  the  place 

of  a  friend." 
Up  she  passed  through  the  wards,  and  stood  at  a  young 

man's  bed : 
Bloody  the  band  on  his  brow,  and  livid  the  droop  of 

his  head. 

"  Art  thou  a  Lombard,  my  brother  ?   Happy  art  thou," 

she  cried, 
And  smiled  like  Italy  on  him :  he  dreamed  in  her  face 

and  died. 

Pale  with  his  passing  soul,  she  went  on  still  to  a 
second : 

He  was  a  grave  hard  man,  whose  years  by  dungeons 
were  reckoned. 

Wounds  in  his  body  were  sore,  wounds  in  his  life  were 
sorer. 

"Art  thou  a  Romagnole?"  Her  eyes  drove  light- 
nings before  her. 

Austrian  and  priest  had  joined  to  double  and  tighten 
the  cord 

Able  to  bind  thee,  0  strong  one— free  by  the  stroke  of 
a  sword. 

"  Now  be  grave  for  the  rest  of  us,  using  the  life  over- 
cast 

To  ripen  our  wine  of  the  present,  (too  new,)  in  glooms 
of  the  past." 

"  Down  she  stepped  to  a  pallet  where  lay  a  face  like  a 
girl's, 

Young,  and  pathetic  with  dying — a  deep  black  hole  m 
the  curls. 

"Art  thou  from  Tuscan^-,  brother  ?  and  seest  thou, 
dreaming  in  pain, 

Thy  mother  stand  in  the  piazza,  searching  the  list  of 
the  slain  V 


A     COURT     LADY.  lf)l 

Kind  as  a  mother  herself,  she  touched  his  cheeks  with 

her  hands : 
*'  Blessed  is   she  who  has   borne  thee,  although  she 

should  weep  as  she  stands." 
On  she  passed  to  a  Frencliman,  his  arm  carried  off 

by  a  ball : 
Kneeling,  .  .  "  0  more  than  my  brother !  how  shall  I 

thank  thee  for  all  ? 
"  Each  of  the  heroes  around  us  has  fought  for  his  land 

and  line, 
hut  thou  hast  fouglit  for  a  stranger,  in  ha'.e  of  a  w^rong 

not  thine. 
"  Happy  are  all  free  peoples,  too  strong  to  be  dispos- 
sessed. 
But  blessed  are  those  among  nations,  who  dare  to  be 

strong  for  the  rest !" 
Ever  she  passed  on  her  wa}-,  and   came  to  a  couch 

where  pined 
One  with  a  face  from  Venetia,  white  with  a  hope  out 

of  mind. 
Long  she  stood  and  gazed,  and  twice  she  tried  at  the 

name, 
But  two  great  crystal  tears  were  all  that  faltered  anu 

came. 
Only  a  tear  for  Venice  ? — she  turned  as  in  passion  and 

loss. 
And  stooped  to  his  forehead  and  kissed  it,  as  if  she 

were  kissing  the  cross. 
Faint  Avith  that  strain  of  heart  she  moved  on  then  to 

another. 
Stern  and  strong  in  his  death.   "  And  dost  thou  suffer, 

my  brother?" 
Holding  his  hands  in  hers  : — "  Out  of  the  Piedmont 

lion 
Cometh  the  sweetness  of  freedom  !  sweetest  to  live  or 

to  die  on." 
Holding  his  cold  rough  hands — "  Well,  oh  well  have 

ye  done 
In  noble,  noble  Piedmont,  who  would  not  be  noble 

alone." 
Back  he  fell  while  she  spoke.     She  rose  to  her  feet 

with  a  spring — 
"That  was  a  Piedmontese  !  and  this   is  the  Court  of 

the  King." 


102  IXALY     AND     THE     WORLD. 


ITALY   AND   THE   WORLD. 

Florence,  Bologna,  Parma,  Modena. 

When  you  named  them  a  year  ago, 
So  man}'  graves  reserved  by  God,  in  a 

Day  of  judgment,  you  seemed  to  know. 
To  open  and  let  out  the  resurrection. 

And  meantime,  (you  made  your  reflection 
If  yon  were  English)  was  naught  to  be  done 

But  sorting  sables,  in  predilection 
For  all  those  martyrs  dead  and  gone. 

Till  the  new  earth  and  heaven  made  ready. 

And  if  your  politics  were  not  head}-, 
Violent,  .  .  "  Good,"  you  added,  "  good 

In  all  things !  mourn  on  sure  and  steady, 
Churchyard  thistles  are  wholesome  food 

For  our  European  wandering  asses. 

"  The  date  of  the  resurrection  passes 
Human  fore-knowledge:  men  unliorn 

Will  gain  b}^  it  (even  in  the  lower  classes), 
But  none  of  these.     It  is  not  the  morn 

Because  the  cock  of  France  is  crowing. 

"  Cocks  crow  at  midnight,  seldom  knowing 
Starlight  from  dawn-light :  'tis  a  mad 

Poor  creature."     Here  you  paused,  and  growing 
Scornful,  .  .  suddenly,  let  us  add, 

The  trumpet  sounded,  the  graves  were  open. 

Life  and  life  and  life  !  agrope  in 

The  dusk  of  death,  warm  hands,  stretched  out 
For  swords,  proved  more  life  still  to  hope  in, 

Beyond  and  behind.     Arise  with  a  shout. 
"Nation  of  Italy,  slain  and  buried  ! 

Hill  to  hill  and  turret  to  turret 

Flashing  the  tricolor — newly  created 

Beautiful  Italy,  calm,  unhurried, 
Rise  heroic  and  renovated, 

Rise  to  the  final  restitution. 

Rise  ;  prefigure  the  grand  solution 

Of  earth's  municipal,  insular  schisms — 

Statesmen  draping  self-love's  conclusion 
In  cheap,  vernacular  patriotisms. 

Unable  to  give  up  Judaa  for  Jesus. 


ITALY     AND     THE     WORLD.  }():] 

Bring  us  the  higher  example  ;  release  us 

Into  the  larger  cominii-  time: 
And  into  Christ's  broad  garment  piece  us 

Rags  of  virtue  as  poor  as  crime, 
National  selfishness,  civic  vaunting. 
No  more  Jew  nor  Greek  then — taunting 

Nor  taunted  ; — no  more  England  nor  France! 
But  one  confederate  brotherhood  planting 

One  flag  only,  to  mark  the  advance, 
Onward  and  upward,  of  all  humanitj'. 
For  full}^  developed  Christianity 

Is  civilization  perfected. 
"Measure  the  frontier,"  shall  it  be  said, 

"  Count  the  ships,"  in  national  vanity? 
— Count  the  nation's  heart-beats  sooner. 
For,  though  behind  by  a  cannon  or  schooner. 

That  nation  still  is  predominant. 
Whose  pulse  beats  quickest  in  zeal  to  oppugn  oi 

Succor  another,  in  wrong  or  want. 
Passing  the  frontier  in  love  and  abhorrence. 
Modena.  Parma,  Bologna,  Florence, 

Open  us  out  the  wider  way  ! 
Dwarf  in  that  chapel  of  old  St.  Lawrence 

Your  Michel  Angelo's  giant  Day, 
With  the  grandeur  of  this  Day  breaking  o'er  us  I 
Ye  who,  restrained  as  an  ancient  chorus, 

Mute  while  the  coryphaeus  spake. 
Hush  3'our  sei)arate  voices  before  us, 

Sink  your  separate  lives  for  the  sake 
Of  one  sole  Italy's  living  forever! 
Givers  of  coat  and  cloak  too — never 

Grudging  that  purple  of  yours  at  the  best — 
By  3'our  heroic  will  and  endeavor 

Each  sublimel}'  dispossessed. 
That  all  maj-  inherit  what  each  surrenders ! 
Earth  shall  bless  j^ou,  0  noble  emenders 

On  egotist  nations  !     Ye  shall  lead 
The  plow  of  the  world,  and  sovv  new  splendors 

Into  the  furrow  of  things,  for  seed — 
Ever  the  richer  for  what  ye  have  given. 
Lead  us  and  teach  us,  till  earth  and  heaven 

Grow  larger  around  us  and  higher  above. 
Our  sacrament-biead  has  a  bitter  leaven  ; 

AVe  bait  our  traps  with  the  name  of  love, 
Till  hate  itself  has  a  kinder  meaning. 


104  rTALY      AST)      THE      WORLD. 

Oh,  this  world  :  this  cheating  and  screening 

Of  cheats  !  this  conscience  for  candle-wicks, 
Not  beacon-fires  !  this  over-weening 

Of  under-hand  diplomatical  triclis, 
Dared  for  the  country  while  scorned  for  the  counter ! 
Oh,  this  envy  of  those  who  mount  here, 

And  oh,  tiiis  malice  to  ma,ke  them  trip ! 
Rather  quenching  the  fire  there,  drying  the  fount  here, 

To  frozen  body  and  thirsty  lip, 
Than  leave  to  a  neighbor  their  ministration. 
I  cry  aloud  in  my  poet-passion, 

Viewing  my  p]ngland  o'er  Alp  and  sea. 
I  loved  her  more  in  her  ancient  fashion  : 
She  carries  her  rifles  too  thick  for  me, 
Wlio  spares  them  so  in  the  cause  of  a  brother. 
Suspicion,  panic?  end  this  pother. 

The  sword,  kept  sheathless  at  peace-time,  rusts. 
None  fears  for  himself  while  he  feels  for  another: 

Tlie  brave  man  either  fights  or  trusts, 
And  wears  no  mail  in  his  private  chamber. 
Beautiful  Italy  !  golden  amber 

Warm  with  the  kisses  of  lover  and  traitor! 
Thou  who  hast  drawn  us  on  to  remember 
Draw  us  to  hope  now :  let  us  be  greater 
By  this  new  future  than  that  old  story. 
Till  truer  glory  replaces  all  glory, 

As  the  torch  grows  blind  at  the  dawn  of  day  , 
And  the  nations,  rising  up,  their  sorry 

And  foolish  sins  shall  put  away, 
As  children  their  toys  when  their  teacher  enters. 
Till  Love's  one  centre  devour  these  centres 

Of  many  self-loves ;  and  the  patriot's  trick 
To  better  his  land  by  egotist  ventures. 

Defamed  from  a  virtue,  shall  make  men  sick, 
As  the  scalp  at  the  belt  of  some  red  hero. 
For  certain  virtues  have  dropped  to  zero, 

Left  by  the  sun  on  the  mountain's  dewy  side ; 
Churchman's  charities,  tender  as  Nero, 

Indian  suttee,  heathen  suicide, 
Service  to  rights  divine,  proved  hollow  : 
And  Heptarchy  patriotisms  must  follow. 

National  voices,  distinct  jet  dependent, 

Ensphering  each  other,  as  svvalhjw  does  swallov,-, 
With  circles  still  widening  and  ever  ascendant, 
In  multiform  life  to  united  progression — 


A      OtJRSE      FOR     A     NATION.  105 

These  shall  remain.     And  when,  in  the  session 
Of  nations,  the  separate  language  is  heard, 

Each  shall  aspire,  in  sublime  indiscretion, 
To  help  with  a  thought  or  exalt  with  a  word 

Less  her  own  than  her  rival's  honor. 

Each  Christian  nation  shall  take  upon  her 
The  law  of  the  Cliristian  man  in  vast: 

The  crown  of  the  getter  shall  fall  to  the  donor, 
And  last  shall  be  first  while  first  shall  be  last. 

And  to  love  best  shall  still  be,  to  reign  unsurpassed 


A  CURSE  FOR  A  NATION 

PROLOGUE. 

I  HEARD  on  angel  speak  last  night, 

And  he  said,  "  Write! 
Write  a  nation's  curse  for  me. 
And  send  it  over  the  Western  Sea." 
I  faltered,  taking  up  the  word : 

"  Not  so,  m}'  lord  ! 
If  curses  must  be,  choose  another 
To  send  thy  curse  against  my  brother. 
"  For  I  am  bound  by  gratitude. 

By  love  and  blood. 
To  brothers  of'mine  across  the  sea. 
Who  stretch  out  kindly  hands  to  me." 
"Therefore,"  the  voice  said,  "  shalt  thou  write 

My  curse  to-night. 
From  the  summits  of  love  a  curse  is  driven, 
As  lightning  is  from  the  tops  of  heaven." 
"  Not  so,"  I  answered.     "  Evermore 

My  heart  is  sore 
For  my  own  land's  sins :  for  little  feet 
Of  children  bleeding  along  the  street: 
"  For  parked-up  honors  that  gainsay 

'I'he  right  of  way  : 
For  almsgiving  through  a  door  that  is 
Not  open  enough  for  two  friends  to  kiss  : 
"  For  love  of  freedom  which  abates 

Beyond  the  Straits : 
For  patriot  virtue  starved  to  vice  on 
Self-praise,  self-interest,  and  suspicion ; 


106  A     CUKSE     FOR     A     NATION. 

"  For  an  oligarchic  parliament, 
And  bribes  well-meant. 
What  curse  to  another  land  assign, 
When  heav3'-souled  for  the  sins  of  mine  ? 

"  Therefore,"  the  voice  said,  "  shalt  thou  write 

My  curse  to-night. 
Because  thou  hast  strength  to  see  and  hate 
A  foul  thing  done  within  thy  gate." 

"Not  so,"  I  answered  once  again. 

"  To  curse,  choose  men. 
For  I,  a  woman,  have  onl}'  known 
How  the  heart  melts  and  the  tears  run  down." 

"Therefore," the  voice  said,  "shalt  thou  write 

My  curse  to  night. 
Some  women  weep  and  curse,  I  say, 
(And  no  one  marvels,)  night  and  day. 

"  And  thou  shalt  take  their  part  to-night, 

Weep  and  write. 
A  curse  from  the  depths  of  womanhood 
Is  very  salt,  and  bitter,  and  good." 

So  thus  T  wrote,  and  mourned  indeed, 

What  all  ma^'  read. 
And  thus,  as  was  enjoined  on  me, 
I  send  it  over  the  Western  Sea. 


THE    CURSE. 

Because  ye  have  broken  your  own  chain 

With  the  strain 
Of  brave  men  climbing  a  Nation's  height. 
Yet  thence  bear  down  with  brand  and  thong 
On  souls  of  others — for  this  wrong. 

This  is  the  curse.     AYrite. 
Because  j'ourselves  are  standing  straight 

In  the  state 
Of  Freedom's  foremost  acolyte. 
Yet  keep  calm  footing  all  tiie  time 
On  writhing  bond-slaves — for  this  crime 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 
Because  ye  prosper  in  God's  name. 

With  a  claim 
To  honor  in  the  old  world's  sight. 


A     CURSE     FOR     A     NATION.  107 

Yet  do  the  fiend's  work  perfectly' 
In  Strang! in<^  martyrs — for  this  lie 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 
Ye  shall  watch  while  kings  conspire 
Kound  the  people's  smouldering  fire, 

And,  warm  for  your  part, 
Shall  never  dare — 0  shame  ! 
To  utter  the  tliought  into  flame 
Which  burns  at  your  heart. 
This  is  the  curse.     Write. 
Ye  shall  Avatch  while  nations  strive 
With  the  bloodhounds,  die  or  survive, 

Drop  faint  from  their  jaws, 
Or  throttle  them  backward  to  death, 
And  only  under  your  breath 
Shall  favor  the' cause. 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 
Ye  shall  watch  while  strong  men  draw 
The  nets    of  feudal  law 
To  strangle  the  weak, 
And,  counting  the  sin  for  a  sin. 
Your  soul  shall  be  sadder  within 
Than  the  word  ye  shall  speak. 
This  is  the  curse.     Write. 
When  good  men  are  praying  erect 
That  Christ  may  avenge  his  elect 

And  deliver  the  earth. 
The  prayer  in  your  ears,  said  low, 
Shall  sound  like  the  tramp  of  a  foe 
That's  driving  you  forth. 
This  is  the  curse.     Write. 
When  wise  men  give  ,you  their  praise, 
Tliey  shall  pause  in  the  heat  of  the  phrase, 

As  if  carried  too  far. 
Wlien  ye  boast  your  own  charters  kept  true, 
Ye  shall  blush  ;— for  the  thing  which  ye  do 
Derides  what  ye  are. 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 
When  fools  cast  taunts  at  your  gate, 
Your  scorn  ye  shall  somewhat  abate 

As  ye  loo':  o'er  the  wall. 
For  3'our  conscience,  tradition,  and  name 
Kxplode  with  a  deadlier  blame 
Than  the  worst  of  them  all. 
This  is  the  curse.     Write. 


lOS  A     FALSE     STEP. 

Go,  wherever  ill  deeds  shall  be  done. 
Go,  plant  your  flag  in  the  sun 

Beside  the  ill-doers  I 
And  recoil  fi-otn  clenching  the  curse 
Of  God's  witnessing  Universe 

With  a  curse  of  yours. 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 


A  FALSE  STEP. 

Sweet,  thou  hast  trod  on  a  heart. 

Pass  !  there's  a  world  full  of  men  ; 
And  women  as  fair  as  thou  art 

Must  do  such  things  now  and  then. 

Thou  only  hast  stepped  unaware — 

Malice,  not  one  can  impute  ; 
And  why  should  a  heart  have  been  there 

In  the  way  of  a  fair  woman's  foot  ? 

It  was  not  a  stone  that  could  trip, 
Nor  was  it  a  thorn  that  could  rend  : 

Put  up  thy  proud  underlip  ! 

'Twas  merelj'  the  heart  of  a  friend. 

And  yet  peradventure  one  da}'^ 
Thou,  sitting  alone  at  the  glass, 

Remarking  the  bloom  gone  awa}'. 

Where  the  smile  in  its  dimplement  was, 

And  seeking  around  thee  in  vain 
From  hundreds  who  flattered  before, 

Such  a  word  as,  "  Oh,  not  in  the  main 
Do  I  hold  thee  less  precious,  but  more  I" 

Thou'lt  sigh,  very  like,  on  thy  part, 
"  Of  all  I  have  know  or  can  know, 

I  wish  I  had  only  that  Heart 
I  trod  upon  ages  agol" 


LITTLE     MATTIK.  ICT 


LAST    POEMS. 


ITTLE  MATTIE. 

Dead  !  Thirteen  a  month  ago ! 

Short  and  narrow  her  life's  walk  • 
Lover's  love  she  could  not  know 

Even  b}'  a  dream  or  talk  : 
Too  young  to  be  glad  of  youth, 

Missing  honor,  labor,  rest, 
And  the  warmth  of  a  babe's  mouth 

At  the  blossom  of  her  breast. 
Must  you  pity  her  for  this 
And  for  all  the  loss  it  is, 
You,  her  mother,  with  wet  face, 
Having  had  all  in  your  case  ? 

Just  so  young  but  3-esternight, 

Now  she  is  as  old  as  death 
Meek,  obedient  in  your  sight. 

Gentle  to  a  beck  or  breath 
Only  on  last  Monday  1  Yours, 

Answering  you  like  silver  bells 
Lightly  touched  !  An  hour  matures 

You  can  teach  her  nothing  else. 
She  has  seen  the  mystery  hid 
Under  Egypt's  pyramid  : 
By  those  eyelids  pale  and  close 
Now  she  knows  what  Rhamses  knows. 
Cross  her  quiet  hands,  and  smooth 

Down  her  patient  locks  of  silk, 
Cold  and  passive  as  in  truth 

You  your  fin-zers  in  spilt  milk 
Drew  along  a  marble  floor  ;    . 

But  her  lips  you  cannot  wring 
Into  saying  a  word  more, 

"  Yes,"  or  "  No,"  or  such  a  thing 
Though  you  call  and  beg  and  wreak 
Half  your  soul  out  in  a  shriek. 
She  will  lie  there  in  default 
And  most  innocent  revolt. 


110  LITTLE     MATTIE. 

A3',  and  if  she  spoke,  maybe 

She  would  answer  like  the  Son, 
"What  is  now  'twixt  thee  and  me?  '^ 

Dreadful  answer  1  better  none. 
Yours  on  Monday,  God's  to-day  ! 

Yours,  your  cliild,  your  blood,  your  heart, 
Called  .  .  you  called  her,  did  you  say, 

"  Little  Mattie  "  for  your  part  ? 
Now  all  read}^  it  sounds  strange, 
And  you  wonder,  in  this  chanlie, 
What  He  calls  His  angel-creature, 
Higher  up  than  j^ou  can  reach  her. 

'Twas  a  green  and  easy  world 

As  she  took  it  ;  room  to  play, 
^^Though  one's  hair  might  get  uncurler 

At  the  far  end  of  the  day). 
What  she  suffered  she  shook  off 

In  the  sunshine ;  what  she  sinned 
She  could  pray  on  high  enough 

To  keep  safe  above  the  wind. 
If  reproved  by  God  or  you, 
'Twas  to  better  her,  she  knew  ; 
A.nd  if  crossed,  she  gathered  still, 
'Twas  to  cross  out  something  ill. 

You,  you  had  the  right,  3-ou  thought 

To  survey  her  with  sweet  scorn. 
Poor  ga,y  child,  who  had  not  caught 

Yet  the  octave-stretch  forlorn 
Of  3'our  larger  wisdom  !  Nay, 

Now  your  places  are  changed  so, 
In  that  same  superior  way 

She  regards  you  dull  and  low 
As  3^ou  did  herself  exempt 
From  life's  sorrows.     Grand  contempt 
Of  the  spirits  risen  awhile. 
Who  look  back  with  such  a  smile  1 

There's  the  "sting  oft.     That,  I  think, 

Hurts  the  most  a  thousandfold  I 
To  feel  sudden,  at  a  wink. 

Some  dear  child  we  used  to  scold. 
Praise,  love  both  ways,  kiss  and  tease, 

Teach  and  tumble  as  our  own. 
All  its  curls  about  our  knees. 

Rise  u])  suddenl3'  full-grown. 


VOID     IN     LAW.  Ill 

Who  could  wonder  such  a  sight 
Made  a  woman  mad  outright  ? 
Show  me  Michael  with  the  sword 
Rather  than  such  angels,  Lord  ! 


VOID  IN  LAW. 

Bleep,  little  babe,  on  my  knee, 

Sleep,  for  the  midnight  is  chill. 
And  the  moon  has  died  out  in  the  tree. 

And  the  great  human  world  goeth  ill. 
Sleep,  for  the  wicked  agree : 

Sleep,  let  them  do  as  they  will. 
Sleep. 

Sleep,  thou  hast  drawn  from  my  breast 
The  last  drop  of  milk  that  was  good  ; 

Au  now,  in  a  dream,  suck  the  rest. 

Lest  the  real  should  trouble  thy  blood 

Suck,  little  lips  dispossessed. 

As  we  kiss  in  the  air  whom  wc  would. 

Sleep. 

0  lips  of  thy  father !  the  same. 

So  like !     Yer^^  deeply-  they  swore 
When  he  gave  me  his  ring  and  his  name, 

To  take  back,  I  imagined,  no  more ! 
And  now  is  all  changed  like  a  game. 

Though  the  old  cards  are  used  as  of  j'ore  ? 
Sleep. 

"  Void  in  law,"  said  the  Courts.     Something  wronf 
In  the  forms  ?     Yet,  "  Till  death  part  us  two, 

I,  James,  take  thee,  Jessie,"  was  strong. 
And  One  witness  competent.     True 

Such  a  marriage  was  worth  an  old  song. 

Heard  in  Heaven  though,  as  plain  as  the  New. 

Sleep. 

Sleep,  little  child,  his  and  mine  ! 

Her  throat  has  the  antelope  curve, 
And  her  cheek  just  the  color  and  line 

Which  fade  not  before  him  nor  swerve: 
Yet  she  has  no  child  ! — the  divine 

Seal  of  right  upon  loves  that  deserve. 
Sleep. 


112  VOID     IN     LAW. 

My  child  !  though  the  world  take  her  part, 
Saj'ing,  "  She  was  the  woman  to  choose, 

He  had  eyes,  was  a  man  in  his  heart," — • 
We  twain  the  decision  refuse  : 

We  .  .  weak  as  I  am,  as  thou  art,  .  . 
Cling  on  to  him,  never  to  loose. 

Sleep. 

He  thinks  that,  when  done  with  this  place, 
All's  ended  ?    he'll  new-stamp  the  ore  ? 

Yes,  Cffisar's — but  not  in  our  case. 
Let  him  learn  we  are  waiting  before 

Ths  grave's  mouth,  the  heaven's  gate,  God's  face 
AVith  implacable  love  evermore. 

Sleep. 

He's  ours,  though  he  kissed  her  but  now  ; 

He's  ours,  though  she  kissed  in  reply ; 
He's  ours,  though  himself  disavow. 

And  God's  universe  favor  the  lie  ; 
Ours  to  claim,  ours  to  clasp,  ours  below, 

Ours  above,  .  .  if  we  live,  if  we  die. 
Sleep. 

Ah  baby,  m}-  babj',  too  rough 

Is  m}'  lullaby?     What  have  I  said  ? 

Sleep  !  When  I've  wept  long  enough 
I  shall  learn  to  weep  softly  instead, 

And  piece  with  some  alien  stuff 

My  heart  to  lie  smooth  for  thy  head. 

Sleep. 

Two  souls  met  upon  thee,  my  sweet ; 

Two  loves  led  thee  out  to  the  sun  : 
Alas,  pretty  hands,  pretty  feet, 

If  the  one  who  remains  (only  one) 
Set  her  grief  at  thee,  turned  in  a  heat 

To  thine  enemy — were  it  well  done  ? 
Sleep. 

May  he  of  the  manger  stand  near 
And  love  thee !     An  infant  He  came 

To  His  own  who  rejected  Him  here, 

But  the  Magi  brought  gifts  all  the  same 

I  hurry  the  cross  on  my  Dear  1 
My  gifts  are  the  griefs  I  declaim  1 

Sleep. 


LOAD     WALTER'S     WIFE.  H'i 


LORD  WALTER'S  WIFE. 

"But  why  do  you  go?"  said  the  lady,  while  both  sat 

under  the  yew, 
And  her  eyes  were  alive  ia  their  depth,  as  the  kraken 

beneath  the  sea-blue, 

"Because  I  fear  you,"  he  answered ; — "because  you 
are  far  too  fair, 

And  able  to  strangle  my  soul  in  a  mesh  of  your  gold- 
colored  hair." 

"Oh,  that,"  she  said,  "is  no  reason!     Such  knots  ai'e 

quickly  undone, 
And  too  much  beauty,  I  reckon,  is  nothing  but  too 
much  sun." 

"  Yet  farewell  so,"  he  answered  ; — "  the  sun-stroke's 

fatal  at  times. 
I   value   your  husband,   Lord  Walter,   whose  gallop 

rings  still  from  the  limes." 

"  Oh,  that,"  she  said,  is  no  reason.     You  smell  a  rose 

through  a  fence : 
If  two  should  smell  it,  what  matter  ?  who  grumbles, 

and  Where's  the  pretence?" 

"  But  I,"  he  replied,    have   promised  another,  when 

love  was  free. 
To  love  her  alone,  alone,  who  alone  and  afar  loves 

me." 

"  Why,  that,"  she  said,  "  is  no  reason.  Love's  alwa^-s 
free,  I  am  told. 

Will  you  vow  to  be  safe  from  the  headache  on  Tues- 
day, and  think  it  will  hold  ?" 

"  But  you,"  he  replied,  "  have  a  daughter,  a  j'oung 
little  child,  who  was  laid 

In  your  lap  to  be  pure ;  so  I  leave  you:  the  angels 
would  make  me  afraid." 

"  Oh,  that,"  she  said,  "  is  no  reason.     The  angels  keep 

out  of  the  way  ; 
And  Dora,  the  child,  observes  nothing,  although  3'ou 

should  please  me  and  stay." 

At  which  he  rose  up  in  his  angor — "  Why,  now,  you 

no  longer  are  fairl 
Why,  now,  j'^ou  no   longer  are  fatal,  but  ugly  and 

hateful,  I  swear." 


114  LORD     WALTER'S     WIF^ 

At  which  she  laughed  out  in  her  scorn. — "  These  men  ! 

Oh,  these  men  overnice, 
Who  are  shocked  if  a  color  not  virtuous,  is  frankly 

put  on  by  a  vice." 
Her  eyes  blazed  upon  him — "  And  you  !     You  bring 

us  your  vices  so  near 
That  we  smell  them  !  You  think  in  our  presence   a 

thought  'twould  defame  us  to  hear  1 
"What  reason  had  you,  and  what  right — I  appeal  to 

j^our  soul  from  my  life — 
To  find  me  too  fair  as  a  woman  ?  Wh^'-,  sir,  I  am  pure, 

and  a  wife. 
"  Is  the  day-star  too  fair  up  above  3'ou  ?  It  burns  3'ou 

not.     Dare  3'ou  imply 
I  brushed  3'ou  more  close  tnan  the  star  does,  when 

Walter  had  set  me  as  high  ? 
"  If  a  man  finds  a  woman  too  fair,  he  means  simply 

adapted  too  much 
To   uses    unlawful  and  fatal.     The  praise! — shall    I 

thank  you  for  such  ? 
"  Too  fair? — not  unless  you  misuse  us  !  and  surely  if, 

once  in  a  while, 
Y'ou  attain  to  it,  straightway  .you  call  us  no  longer  too 

fair,  but  too  vile. 
"  A  moment — I  pra^'-  3'our  attention  ! — I  have  a  poor 

word  in  my  head 
I  must  utter,  though  womaulj^  custom   would  set  it 

down  better  unsaid. 
*'  you    grew,  sir,  pale  to  impertinence,  once  when  I 

showed  3'OU  a  ring. 
You  kissed   my  fan  when  I  dropped  it.     No  matter  ! 

— I've  broken  the  thing. 
"  You  did  me  the  honor,  perhaps,  to  be  moved  at  my 

side  now  and  then 
In  the  senses — a  vice,  I  have  heard,  which  is  common 

to  beasts  and  some  men. 
"  Love's  a  virtue  for  heroes  ! — as  white  as  the  snow  on 

high  hills, 
And   immortal  as  every  great  soul  is  that  struggles, 

endures,  and  fulfils. 
"  I  love  my  Walter  profoundl3' — you,  Maude,  though 

3'ou  faltered  a  week, 
For  the  sake  of .  .  what  was  it  ?  an  eyebrow  ?  or,  less 

still,  a  mole  on  a  cheek  ? 


BIANCA    AMONG   THE    NIGHTINGALES.    115 

"  And  since,  when  all's  said,  you're  too  noble  to  stoop 

to  the  frivolous  cant 
About  crimes  irresistible,  virtues  that  swindle,  betray 

and  su23plant, 

"  I  determined  to  prove  to  yourself  that,  whatc'er  you 

might  dream  or  avow 
By  illusion,  you  wanted  precisely  no  more  of  me  than 

3''ou  have  now. 

"  There !  Look  me  full  in  the  face ! — in  the  face.  Un- 
derstand, if  you  can, 

That  the  eyes  of  such  women  as  I  am,  are  clean  as  the 
palm  of  a  man. 

"  Drop  his  hand,  you   insult  him.     Avoid  us  for  fear 

we  should  cost  you  a  scar — 
You  take   us  for  harlots,  I  tell  you,  and  not  for  the 

women  we  are. 

"  You  wronged  me  :  but  then  I  considered  .  .  .  there's 

Walter !  And  so  at  the  end, 
I  vowed  that  he  should  not  be  mulcted,  by  me,  in  the 

hand  of  a  friend. 

"Have  I  hurt  you  indeed  ?     We  are  quits  then.    "Nay, 

friend  of  my  Walter,  be  mine  ! 
Come  Dora,  my  darling,  my  angel,  and  help  me  to  ask 

him  to  dine." 


BIANCA  AMONG   THE  NIGHTINGALES 

The  cypress  stood  up  like  a  church 

That  night  we  felt  our  love  would  hold, 
And  saintly  moonlight  seemed  to  search 

And  wash  the  whole  world  clean  as  gold  ; 
The  olives  cr^-stallized  the  vales' 

Broad  slopes  until  the  hills  grew  strong  : 
The  fireflies  and  the  nightingales 

Throbbed  each  to  either,  flame  and  song. 
The  nightingales,  the  nightingales. 

Upon  the  angle  of  its  shade 

The  cypress  stood,  self-balanced  high  ; 
Half  up,  half  down,  as  double-made. 

Along  the  ground,  against  the  sky. 
And  we,  too  !  from  such  soul-height  went 

Such  leaps  of  blood,  so  blindly  driven. 


IIG   BIANOA   AMONG   THE   N  I  Q  H  T  I  N  Q  A  L  E  8. 

We  scarce  knew  if  our  nature  meant 

Most  passionate  earth  or  intense  Iieaven. 
The  nightingales,  the  nightingales. 
We  paled  with  love,  we  shook  with  love, 

We  kissed  so  close  we  could  not  vow  ; 
Till  Giulio  whispered,"  Sweet,  above 

God's  Ever  guaranties  this  Now." 
And  through  his  words  the  nightingales 

Drove  straight  and  full  their  long  clear  call, 
Like  ari'ows  through  heroic  mails, 

And  love  was  awful  in  it  all. 
The  nightingales,  the  nightingales. 
0  cold  white  moonlight  of  the  north, 

llefresh  these  pulses,  quench  this  hell ! 

0  coverture  of  death  drawn  forth 
Across  this  garden-chamber  .  .  well 

But  what  have  nightingales  to  do 
In  gloomy  England,  called  the  free 

(Yes,  free  to  die  in !  .  .)  when  we  two 
Are  sundered,  singing  still  to  me? 

And  still  they  sing,  the  nightingales. 

1  think  I  hear  him,  how  he  cried 

"  My  own  soul's  life  "  between  their  notes. 
Each  man  has  but  one  soul  supplied, 

And  that's  immortal.     Though  his  throat's 
On  fire  with  passion  now,  to  her 

He  can't  say  what  to  me  he  said  1 
And  yet  he  moves  her,  they  aver. 

The  nightingales  sing  through  my  head, 
The  nightingales,  tiie  uiglitingales. 
He  says  to  her  what  moves  her  most. 

He  would  not  name  his  soul  within 
Her  hearing — rather  pays  her  cost 

With  praises  to  her  lips  and  chin. 
Man  has  but  one  soul,  'tis  ordained, 

And  each  soul  but  one  love,  I  add ; 
Yet  souls  are  damned  and  love's  profaned 

These  nightingales  will  sing  me  mad  ! 
The  nightingales,  the  nightingales. 
I  marvel  how  the  birds  can  sing. 

There's  little  difierence,  in  their  view. 
Betwixt  our  Tuscan  trees  that  spring 

As  vital  flames  into  the  blue, 
And  dull  round  blots  of  foliage  meant, 

J.i'uc  saturated  sponges  here 


BIANCA   AMONG   TUB    NIGHTINGALES.     l\) 

To  suck  the  fogs  up.     As  content 
Is  he  too  in  this  land,  'tis  clear. 
And  still  they  sing,  the  nightingales. 

My  native  Florence  !  dear,  foregone  I 

I  see  across  the  Alpine  ridge 
How  the  last  feast-day  of  Saint  John 

Shot  rockets  from  Carraia  bridge. 
The  luminous  ciiy,  tall  with  fire, 

Trod  deep  down  in  that  river  of  ours. 
While  many  a  boat  with  lamp  and  choir 

Skimmed  birdlike  over  glittering  towers 
I  will  not  hear  tiiese  nightingales. 

I  seem  to  float,  ive  seem  to  float 

Dovvn  Arno's  stream  in  festive  guise  ; 
A  boat  strikes  flame  into  our  boat, 

And  up  that  lady  seems  to  rise 
As  then  she  rose.     The  shock  had  flashed 

A  vision  on  us !  What  a  head, 
What  leaping  eyeballs  ! — beaut}'  dashed 

To  splendor  by  a  sudden  dread. 
And  still  they  sing,  the  nightingales. 

Too  bold  to  sin,  too  weak  to  die ; 

Such  women  are  so.     As  for  me, 
I  would  we  had  drowned  there,  he  and  I, 

That  moment,  loving  perfectly. 
He  had  not  caught  her  with  her  loosed 

Gold  ringlets  .  .  rarer  in  the  south  .  . 
Nor  heard  the  "  Grazie  tanto  "  bruised 

To  sweetness  by  her  English  mouth. 
And  still  they  sing,  the  nightingales. 

She  had  not  reached  him  at  my  heart 

With  her  fine  tongue,  as  snakes  indeed 
Kill  flies ;  nor  had  I,  for  my  part. 

Yearned  after,  in  m}'  desperate  need, 
And  followed  him  as  he  did  her 

To  coasts  left  bitter  by  the  tide. 
Whose  very  nightingales,  elsewhere 

Delighting,  torture  and  deride! 
For  still  the}'  sing,  the  nightingales. 

A  worthless  woman  !  mere  cold  clay 
As  all  false  things  are !  but  so  fair, 

She  takes  the  breath  of  men  away 
Who  gaze  upon  her  unaware. 


118   BIANCA   AMONG    TilE   NIOHTINGALES. 

I  would  not  play  her  larcenous  tricks 
To  haA'e  lier  looks  !     She  lied  and  stole, 

And  spat  into  my  love's  pure  pyx 
The  rank  saliva  of  her  soul. 

And  still  the}'  sing,  the  nightingales. 

I  would  not  for  her  white  and  pink, 

Though  such  he  likes — her  grace  of  limb, 
Though  such  he  has  praised — nor  yet,  I  think, 

For  life  itself,  though  spent  with  him, 
Commit  such  sacrilege,  affront 

God's  nature  which  is  love,  intrude 
'Twixt  two  affianced  souls,  and  hunt 

Like  spiders,  in  the  altar's  wood. 
I  cannot  bear  these  nightingales. 

If  she  chose  sin,  some  gentler  guise 

She  mifj-ht  have  sinned  in,  so  it  seems: 
She  might  have  pricked  out  both  my  eyes, 

And  1  still  seen  him  in  my  dreams! 
— Or  drugged  me  in  my  soup  or  wine, 

Nor  left  me  angry  alterward  : 
To  die  here  with  liis  hand  in  mine 

His  breath  upon  me,  were  not  hard. 
(Our  Lady  hush  these  nightingales  !) 

But  set  a  springe  for  him,  "  mio  ben," 

My  only  good,  my  first  last  love! — 
Though  Christ  knows  well  what  sin  is,  when 

He  sees  some  things  done  they  must  move 
Himself  to  wonder.     Let  her  pass. 

I  think  of  her  by  night  and  da3% 
Must  /  too  join  her  .  .  out,  alas  !  .  . 

With  Giulio,  in  each  word  I  say  ? 
And  evermore  the  nightingales  ! 

Giulio,  my  Giulio  ! — sing  they  so, 

And  you  be  silent?     Do  I  speak. 
And  3^ou  not  hear  ?     An  arm  you  throw 

Round  some  one,  and  I  feel  so  weak? 
— Oh,  owl-like  birds  !     They  sing  for  spite. 

They  sing  for  hate,  they  sing  for  doom  ! 
They'll   sing   through   death    who   sing   through 
night. 

They'll  sing  and  stun  me  in  the  tomb — 
The  nightingales,  the  nightingales  ! 


MY     KATE.  no 


MY  KATE. 


She  was  not  as  pretty  as  women  I  know, 

And  3'et  all  j-our  best  made  of  sunshine  and  snow 

Drop  to  shade,  melt  to  nought  in  the  long-trodden 

ways, 
While    she's    still    remembered   on    warm    and    cold 

days — 

My  Kate. 

Her  air  had  a  meaning,  her  movements  a  grace  ; 
You  turned  from  the  iairest  to  gaze  on  her  face : 
And  when  3'ou  had  once  seen  her  forehead  and  mouth, 
You  saw  as  distinctly  her  soul  and  her  truth — 

My  Kate. 

Such  a  blue  inner  light  from  her  e3'elids  outbroke. 
You  looked  at  her  silence  and  fancied  she  spoke  : 
When  she  did,  so  peculiar  3'et  soft  Avas  the  tone, 
Though  the  loudest  spoke  also,  you  heard  lier  alone — 

My  Kate. 

I  doubt  if  she  said  to  you  much  that  could  act 
As  a  thought  or  suggestion  :  she  did  not  attract 
In  the  sense  of  the  brilliant  or  wise  :  1  infer 
'Twas  her  thinking  of  others,  made  you  think  of  her— 

M3'  Kate. 

She  never  found  fault  with  3-ou,  never  implied 
Your  wrong  b3'  her  right;  and  yet  men  at  her  side 
Grew  nobler,  girls  purer,  as  through  the  whole  town 
The  children  were  gladder  that  pulled  at  her  gown — . 

My  Kate. 

None  knelt  at  her  feet  confessed  lovers  in  thrall ; 
The3'  knelt  more  to  God  than  the3'  used — that  was 

all : 
If  3'ou  praised  her  as  charming,  some  asked  what  you 

meant. 
But  the  charm  of  her  presence  was   felt   when  she 

went — 

M3^  Kate. 

The  weak  and  the  gentle,  the  ribald  and  rude. 
She  took  as  she  found  them,  and  did  them  all   good  ; 
It  alwa3's  was  so  with  her — see  what  3^ou  have  ! 
She  has  made  the  grass  greener  even  here.  .  with  hei 
grave — 

My  Kate. 


120     A    SONG    FOR   THE   RAGGED    SCHOOLS. 

Mj'^  dear  one ! — when  thou  wast  alive  w^ith  the  rest, 
I  held  thee  the  sweetest  and  loved  thee  the  best : 
And  now  thou  art  dead,  shall  I  not  take  thy  part 
As  thv  smiles  used  to  do  for  thyself  my  sweet  Hearts 

My  Kate  ? 


A    SONG    FOR    THE   RAGGED    SCHOOLS    OF 
LONDON. 

WRITTEN   IN    ROME, 

I  AM  listening  here  in  Rome. 

"  England's  strong,"  saj^  many  speakers, 
"  If  she  winks,  the  Czar  must  come, 

Prow  and  topsail,  to  the  breakers." 

"  England's  rich  in  coal  and  oak," 

Adds  a  Roman,  getting?  moody, 
"  If  she  shakes  a  travelling  cloak, 

Down  our  Appiai:  roll  tlie  scudi." 

"England's  righteous,"  they  rejoin, 
"  Who  shall  grudge  her  exaltations, 

When  her  wealth  of  golden  coin 

Works  the  welfare  of  the  nations  ?  " 

I  am  listening  here  in  Rome. 

Over  Alps  a  voice  is  sweeping — 
"England's  cruel!  save  us  some 

Of  these  victims  in  her  keeping  !" 

As  the  cry  beneath  the  wheel 

Of  an  old  triumphal  Roman 
Cleft  the  people's  shouts  like  steel, 

While  the  show  was  spoilt  for  no  man, 

Comes  that  voice.     Let  others  shout, 
Other  poets  praise  my  land  here  : 

I  am  sadl}^  sitting  out. 

Praying,  "  God  forgive  her  grandeur." 

"  Shall  we  boast  of  empire,  where 
Time  with  ruin  sits  commissioned  ? 

In  God's  liberal  blue  air 

Peter's  dome  itself  looks  wizened  ; 

And  the  mountains,  in  disdain. 

Gather  back  their  lights  of  opal 
From  the' dumb,  despondent  plain, 

Heaped  with  jawbones  of  a  people. 


>    PONG   FOR   THE   RAGGED   SCHOOLS.      121 

Lordly  English,  think  it  o'er, 

Cassar's  doing  is  all  undone  I 
You  have  cannons  on  your  shore, 

And  free  parliaments  in  London, 
Princes'  parks,  and  merchants'  homes. 

Tents  for  soldiers,  ships  for  seamen — . 
Ay,  but  ruins  worse  than  Rome's 

In  your  pauper  men  and  women. 
Women  leering  through  the  gas, 

(Just  such  bosoms  used  to  nurse  you) 
Men,  turned  wolves  by  famine — pass  1 

Those  can  speak  themselves,  and  curse  you 
But  these  others — children  small, 

Spilt  like  blots  about  the  city, 
Quay,  and  street,  and  palace-wall — 

Take  them  up  into  your  pity  1 
Ragged  children  with  bare  feet, 

Whom  the  angels  in  white  raimen 
Know  the  names  of,  to  repeat 

When  they  come  on  ^^ou  for  payment. 
Ragged  children,  hungry-e^^ed, 

Huddled  up  out  of  the  coldness 
On  your  doorsteps,  side  bj'  side. 

Till  your  footman  damns  their  boldness 
In  the  alley's,  in  the  squares. 

Begging,  lying  little  rebels  ; 
In  the  noisj'  thoroughfares, 

Struggling  on  with  piteous  trebles. 
Patient  children — think  what  pain 

Makes  a  3'oung  child  patient — ponder  1 
Wronged  too  commonly  to  strain 

After  righ^t,  or  wish,  or  wonder. 
Wicked  children,  with  peaked  chins. 

And  old  foreheads  !  there  are  many 
With  no  pleasures  except  sins. 

Gambling  with  a  stolen  penny. 
Sickly  children,  that  whine  low 

To  themselves  and  not  their  mothers, 
From  mere  habit — never  so 

Hoping  help  or  care  from  others. 
Healthy  children,  with  those  blue 

English  eyes,  fresh  from  their  Maker, 
Fierce  and  ravenous,  staring  through 

At  the  brown  loaves  of  the  baker. 


122     A   SONG   FOR   THE   RAGGED    SCHOOL§. 

I  am  listening  here  in  Rome, 

And  the  Romans  are  confessing, 
"  English  children  pass  in  bloom 

All  the  prettiest  made  for  blessing." 
"Angli  angeli  P^  (resumed 

From  the  medieval  story) 
"  Such  rose  angelhoods,  emplumed 

In  such  ringlets  of  pure  glory  !  " 
Can  we  smooth  down  the  bright  hair, 

0  m}'  sisters,  calm,  unthrilled  in 
Our  heart's  pulses  ?     Can  we  bear 

The  sweet  looks  of  our  own  children, 
While  those  others,  lean  and  small, 

Scurf  and  mildew  of  the  city, 
Spot  our  streets,  convict  us  all 

Till  we  take  them  into  pity  ? 
"  Is  it  our  fault?"  you  reply, 

"When,  throughout  civilization, 
Every  nation's  empery 

Is  asserted  by  starvation  ? 
"All  these  mouths  we  cannot  feed, 

And  we  cannot  clothe  these  bodies." 
Well,  if  man's  so  hard  indeed. 

Let  them  learn  at  least  what  God  is  I 
Little  outcasts  from  life's  fold, 

The  grave's  hope  they  may  be  joined  in, 
'By  Christ's  covenant  consoled 

For  our  social  contract's  grinding. 
If  no  better  can  be  done. 

Let  us  do  but  this — endeavor 
That  the  sun  behind  the  sun 

Shine  upon  them  while  they  shiver  1 
On  the  dismal  London  flags. 

Through  the  cruel  social  juggle. 
Put  a  thought  beneath  their  rags 

To  ennoble  the  heart's  struggle. 
O  my  sisters,  not  so  much 

Are  we  asked  for — not  a  blossom 
From  our  children's  nosega}^  such 

As  we  gave  it  from  our  bosom — 
Not  the  milk  left  in  their  cup, 

Not  the  lamp  while  they  are  sleeping, 
Not  the  little  cloak  hung  up 

While  the  coat's  in  daily  keeping — 


amy's    cruelty.  123 

But  a  place  in  Ragged  Schools, 
Where  the  oiitcasts  may  to-morrow 

Learn  by  gentle  words  and  rules 
Just  the  uses  of  their  sorrow. 

0  my  sisters  I  children  small, 

Blue-eyed,  wailing  through  the  city — 

Our  own  babes  cry  in  them  all: 
Let  us  take  them  into  pity. 


MAY'S   LOYE. 

You  love  all,  you  say. 

Round,  beneath,  above  me: 

Find  me  then  some  way 
Better  than  to  love  me, 

Me,  too,  dearest  May  ! 

O  world-kissing  eyes 

Which  the  blue  heavens  melt  to  ! 
I,  sad,  overwise. 

Loathe  the  sweet  looks  dealt  to 
All  things — men  and  flies. 

You  love  all,  you  saj^ : 
Therefore,  Dear,  abate  me 

Just  your  love,  1  piay  I 

Shut  your  eyes  and  hate  me — 

Only  me — fair  May  I 


AMY'S    CRUELTY. 

Fair  Amy  of  the  terraced  house, 

Assist  me  to  discover 
Why  you  who  would  not  hurt  a  mouse 

Can  torture  so  your  lover. 

You  give  your  coffee  to  the  cat. 

You  stroke  the  dog  for  coming. 
And  all  3'our  face  grows  kinder  at 

The  little  brown  bee's  humming. 

But  when  he  haunts  your  door  .  .  the  towD 
Marks  coming  and  marks  going  .  . 

You  seem  to  have  stitcJied  your  eyelids  down 
To  that  long  piece  of  sewing ! 


124  amy's    cr  uelt  t 

You  never  give  a  look,  not  you, 
Nor  drop  him  a  "  Good-morning," 

To  keep  bis  long  da}'  warm  and  blue, 
So  fretted  by  your  scorning. 

She  shook  her  head—"  The  mouse  and  bee 
For  crumb  or  flower  will  linger : 

The  dog  is  liappj'  at  my  knee. 
The  cat  purrs  at  my  finger. 

"  But  he  .  .  to  hivi,  the  least  thing  given 
Means  great  things  at  a  distance  ; 

He  wants  my  world,  mj^  sun,  my  heaven, 
Soul,  body,  whole  existence. 

"  They  say  love  gives  as  well  as  takes  ; 

But  I'm  a  simple  maiden — 
My  mother's  first  smile  when  she  wakes 

1  still  have  smiled  and  prayed  in, 

*'  I  only  know  my  mother's  love 
Which  gives  all  and  asks  nothing  ; 

And  this  new  loving  sets  the  groove 
Too  much  the  way  of  loathing. 

"  Unless  he  giA^es  me  all  in  change, 

I  forfeit  all  things  bj'  him : 
The  risk  is  terrible  and  strange — 

I  tremble,  doubt,  .  .  denj'  him. 

"  He's  sweetest  friend,  or  hardest  foe, 

Best  angel,  or  worst  devil; 
I  either  hate  or  .  .  love  him  so, 

I  can't  be  merely  civil ! 

"  You  trust  a  woman  who  puts  forth 
Her  blossoms  thick  as  summer's  ? 

You  think  she  dreams  what  love  is  worth, 
"Who  casts  it  to  new-comers  ? 

"  Such  love's  a  cowslip-ball  to  fling, 

A  moment's  pretty  pastime  ; 
I  give  .  .  all  me,  if  anything. 

The  first  time  and  the  last  time. 

"  Dear  neighbor  of  the  trellised  house, 
A  man  should  murmur  never, 

Though  treated  worse  than  dog  and  mouse. 
Till  doted  on  forever  1" 


M  Y     H  E  A  R  T     A  N  D     I.  ] 05 


MY  HEART  AND  I. 

Enough!  we're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 
We  sit  beside  the  headstone  thus, 
And  wish  that  name  were  carved  for  lis. 

The  moss  reprints  more  tenderly 

The  hard  t^'pes  of  the  mason's  knife, 
As  heaven's  sweet  life  renews  earth's  life 

With  which  we're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 

You  see  we're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 
We  dealt  with  books,  we  trusted  men, 
And  in  our  own  blood  drenched  the  pen. 

As  if  such  colors  could  not  fly. 

We  walked  too  straight  for  fortune's  end, 
We  loved  too  true  to  keep  a  friend  ; 

At  last  we're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 

How  tired  we  feel,  my  heart  and  I ! 
We  seem  of  no  use  in  the  world ; 
Our  fancies  han<>-  gray  and  uncurled 

About  men's  eyes  indiliereutly  ; 

Our  voice  which  thrilled  you  so,  will  let 
You  sleep  ;  our  tears  are  only  wet : 

What  do  we  here,  my  heart  and  I  ? 

So  tired,  so  tired,  my  heart  and  I ! 
It  was  not  thus  in  that  old  time 
When  Kaljih  sat  with  me  'neath  the  lime 

To  watch  the  sunset  from  the  sky. 

"  Dear  love,  you're  looking  tired,"  he  said  ; 
I,  smiling  at  him,  sliook  my  head  : 

'Tis  now  we're  tired,  my  heart  and  1. 

So  tired,  so  tired,  my  heart  and  I! 

Though  now  none  takes  me  on  his  arm 
To  fold  me  close  and  kiss  me  warm 

Till  each  quick  breath  end  in  a  sigh 
Of  happy  languor.     Now,  alone, 
We  lean  upon  this  graveyard  stone, 

Uucheered,  uukissed,  my  heart  and  I. 

Tired  out  we  are,  my  heart  and  I. 
Suppose  the  world  brought  diadems 
To  tempt  us,  crusted  with  loose  gems 

Of  powers  and  pleasures  ?     Let  it  try. 
We  scarcely  care  to  look  at  even 
A  pretty  cliild,  or  God's  blue  heaven, 

We  feel  so  tired,  m3-  lieart  and  I. 


}20 


Where's    agnes? 


Yet  who  complains  ?     My  heart  and  I  ? 
In  this  a1)undant  earth  no  doubt 
Is  little  room  for  things  worn  out  : 

Disdain  them,  break  them,  throw  them  by! 
And  if  before  the  days  grew  rough 
We  once  were  loved,  used — well  enough, 

I  think,  we've  fared,  my  heart  and  I. 


THE  BEST  THING  IN  THE  WOULD. 

What's  the  best  thing  in  the  world  ? 
June-rose,  by  May-dew  impearled  ; 
Sweet  south-wind,  that  means  no  rain, 
Truth,  not  cruel  to  a  friend  ; 
Pleasure,  not  in  haste  to  end  ; 
Beauty,  not  self-decked  and  curled 
Till  its  piide  is  over-plain  ; 
Light,  that  never  makes  you  wink  ; 
Meraor}',  that  gives  no  pain  ; 
Love,  when,  .<o,  yon're  loved  again. 
What's  the  best  thing  in  the  world? 
—Something  out  of  it,  I  think. 


WHERE'S  AGNES  ? 

Xay,  if  I  had  come  back  so. 

And  found  her  dead  in  her  grave, 

And  if  a  friend  I  know 
Had  said,  "  Be  strong,  nor  rave  : 

She  lies  there,  dead  below  : 

"  I  saw  her,  I  who  speak, 

White,  stiff,  the  face  one  blank: 

The  blue  shade  came  to  her  cheek 
Before  they  nailed  the  plai'k. 

For  she  had  been  dead  a  wyek." 

Whj'',  if  he  had  spoken  so, 

I  might  have  believed  the  thinjj, 

Although  her  look,  although 
Her  step,  laugh,  voice's  ling 

Lived  in  me  still  as  they  do. 


WIIKRE's     AGNES?  12i 

But  dead  that  other  way, 

Corrupted  tlms  and  lost  ? 
That  sort  of  worm  in  the  clay  ? 

I  cannot  count  the  cost, 
That  1  should  rise  and  pay. 

My  Agnes  false  ?  such  shame  ? 

She  ?  Rather  be  it  said 
That  the  pure  saint  of  her  name 

Has  stood  there  in  her  stead, 
And  tricked  you  to  this  blame. 

Her  very  gown,  her  cloak 

Fell  chastely  :  no  disguise, 
But  expression  1  while  she  broke 

With  her  clear  gray  morning-eve<s 
Full  upon  me  and  then  spoke." 

She  wore  her  hair  away 

From  her  forehead— like  a  cloud 

Which  a  little  wind  in  May 
Peels  off  finely:  disallowed 

Though  bright  enough  to  stay. 

For  the  heavens  must  have  the  place 
To  themselves,  to  use  and  shine  in. 

As  her  soul  would  have  her  face 
To  press  through  upon  mine,  in 

That  orb  of  angel  grace. 

Had  she  any  fault  at  all, 

'Twas  having  none,  I  thought  too^i 
There  seemed  a  sort  of  thrall ; 

As  she  felt  her  shadow  ought  to 
Fall  straight  upon  the  wall. 

Her  sweetness  strained  the  sense 

Of  common  life  and  duty  ; 
And  every  day's  expense 

Of  moving  in  such  beauty 
Required,  almost,  defence. 

What  good,  I  thought,  is  done 

B3'  such  sweet  things,  if  any  ? 
This  world  smells  ill  i'  the  sun 

Though  the  garden-flowers  are  many-^ 
She  is  only  one. 

Can  a  voice  so  low  and  soft 
Take  open  actual  part 


i?a  Where's    agnes? 

With  Right — maintain  aloft 

Pure  truth  in  life  or  art, 
Vexed  always,  wounded  oft  ? — 

She  fit,  with  that  fair  pose 

Which  melts  from  curve  to  cur've, 

To  stand,  run,  work  with  those 
Who  wrestle  and  deserve. 

And  speak  plain  without  glose  ? 

But  I  turned  round  on  my  fear 

Defiant,  disagreeing — 
"What  if  God  has  set  her  here 

Less  for  action  than  for  Being  ? 
For  the  eye  and  for  the  ear. 

Just  to  show  what  beauty  may, 
Just  to  prove  what  music  can — 

And  then  to  die  away 

From  the  presence  of  a  man, 

Who  shall  learn,  henceforth,  to  pray  ? 

As  a  door,  left  half  ajar 

In  heaven,  would  make  him  think 

How  heavenly-different  are 

Things  glanced  at  through  the  chink. 

Till  he  pined  from  near  to  far. 

That  door  could  lead  to  hell  ? 

That  shining  merely  meant 
Damnation?    ^Wliat  f    She  fell 

Like  a  woman,  who  was  sent 
Like  an  angel,  by  a  spell  ? 

She,  who  scarcely  trod  the  earth, 

Turned  mere  dirt  ?  My  Agnes — mine ! 

Called  so !  felt  of  too  much  worth 
To  be  used  so!  too  divine 

To  be  breathed  near,  and  so  forth ! 

W-^hy,  I  dared  not  name  a  sin 

In  her  presence :  I  went  round, 
Clipped  its  name  and  shut  it  in 

Some  mysterious  crystal  sound — 
Changed  the  dagger  for  the  pin. 
Now  you  name  herself  that  word  f 

O  my  Agnes  !  0  m^^  saint ! 
Then  the  great  joys  of  the  Lord 

Do  not  last  ?     Then  all  this  paint 
Runs  oif  nature  ?  leaves  a  board  ? 


DE     PROFUNDI  S.  129 

Who's  dead  here?     No,  not  she; 

Rather  I  !  or  whence  this  damp 
Cold  corruption's  misery  ? 

While  my  very  mourners  stamp 
Closer  in  the  clods  on  me. 
And  my  month  is  full  of  dust 

Till  I  cannot  speak  and  curse — 
Speak  and  damn  him  .  .  "  Blame's  unjust?' 

Sin  blots  out  the  universe, 
All  because  she  would  and  must  ? 
She,  my  white  rose,  dropping  off 

The  high  rose-tree  branch  I  and  not 
That  the  niglit-wind  blew  too  rough, 

Or  the  noon-sun  burnt  too  hot. 
But,  that  being  a  rose — 'twas  enough  1 
Then  henceforth,  maj"^  earth  gi'ow  trees  ( 

No  more  roses  ! — hard  straight  lines 
To  score  lies  out !  none  of  these 

Fluctuant  curves  !  but  firs  and  pines, 
Poplars,  cedars,  cypresses  1 


DE    PROFUNDIS. 

The  face  which,  duly  as  the  sun, 

Rose  up  for  me  with  life  begun. 

To  mark  all  bright  hours  of  the  day 

With  houil^y  love,  is  dimmed  away — 

And  yet  my  daj's  go  on,  go  on. 

The  tongue  which,  like  a  stream,  could  run 

Smooth  music  from  the  roughest  stone, 

And  every  morning  with  "  Good  day  " 

Makes  each  day  good,  is  hushed  away — 

And  yet  m3^  dajs  go  on,  go  on. 

The  heart  which,  like  a  staff,  was  one 

For  mine  to  lean  and  rest  upon. 

The  strongest  on  the  longest  day 

AVith  steadfast  love,  is  caught  away — 

And  3'et  my  days  go  on,  go  on. 

And  cold  before  m}^  summer's  done, 

And  deaf  in  Nature's  general  tune, 

A  nd  fallen  too  low  for  special  fear, 

And  here,  with  hope  no  longer  here — 

While  the  tears  drop,  my  days  go  on. 


DE     PR0FUND18. 

The  world  goes  whispering  to  its  own, 
"  This  anguish  pierces  to  the  bone  ;" 
And  tender  friends  go  sighing  round, 
"  What  love  can  ever  clu-e  this  wound  ?" 
My  days  go  on,  uiy  days  go  on. 

The  past  rolls  forward  on  the  sun 
And  makes  all  night.     0  dreams  beo-un 
Not  to  be  ended  !     Ended  bliss,       °     ' 
And  life  that  will  not  end  in  this  ! 
My  days  go  on,  my  days  go  on. 

Breath  freezes  on  my  lips  to  moan : 
As  one  alone,  once  not  alone, 
I  sit  and  knock  at  Nature's  door, 
Heart-bare,  heart-hungry,  very  poor, 
Whose  desolated  days  go  on. 

I  knock  and  cry— Undone,  undone  !  , 
Ts  there  no  help,  no  comfort — none? 
So  gleaning  in  tlie  wide  wheat-plains 
Where  otliers  drive  their  loaded  wains  ? 
My  vacant  days  go  on,  go  on. 

This  Xature,  though  the  snows  be  down, 
Thinks  kindly  of  the  bird  of  June  : 
The  little  red  hip  on  the  tree 
Is  ripe  for  such.     What  is  for  me, 
Whose  days  so  winterly  go  on  ? 

No  bird  am  I,  to  sing  in  June, 
And  dare  not  ask  an  equal  boon. 
Good  nests  and  berries  red  are  Nature's 
To  give  away  to  better  creatures — 
And  yet  my  days  gc  on,  go  on. 

/ask  less  kindness  to  be  done — 
Only  to  loose  these  pilgrim-shoon, 
(Too  early  worn  and  grimed)  with  sweet 
Cool  deathly  touch  to  these  tired  feet. 
Till  daj's  go  out  which  now  go  on. 

Only  to  lift  the  turf  unmown 
From  off  the  earth  where  it  has  grown. 
Some  cubit-space,  and  saj-,  "  Behold, 
Creep  in,  poor  Heart,  beneath  that  fold, 
Forgetting  how  the  days  go  on." 

What  harm  would  that  do  ?     Green  anon 
The  sward  would  quicken,  overshone 


DE     PROFUNDIS.  13i 

By  skies  as  blue  ;  and  crickets  might 
Have  leave  to  cliirp  there  day  and  night 
While  my  new  rest  went  on,  went  on. 

From  gracious  Nature  have  I  won 
Such  liberal  bounty  ?  ma}'  I  run 
So,  lizard-like,  within  her  side, 
And  there  be  safe,  who  now  am  tried 
By  daj'S  that  painfully  go  on  ? 

— A  Voice  reproves  me  thereupon. 

More  sweet  than  Nature's  when  the  drone 

Of  bees  is  sweetest,  and  more  deep 

Than  when  the  rivers  overleap 

The  shuddering  pines,  and  thunder  on. 

God's  Yoice,  not  Nature's.     Night  and  noon 
He  sits  upon  the  great  white  throne 
And  listens  for  the  creatures'  praise. 
What  babble  we  of  days  and  days  ? 
The  Day-spring  He,  whose  da^'s  go  on. 

He  reigns  above.  He  reigns  alone  ; 
Systems  burn  out  and  leave  His  throne; 
Fair  mists  of  seraphs  melt  and  fall 
Around  Him,  changeless  amid  all — 
Ancient  of  Da^'S,  whose  days  go  on. 

He  reigns  below.  He  reigns  alone, 
And,  having  life  in  love  foregone 
Beneath  the  crown  of  sovran  thorns, 
He  reigns  the  Jealous  God.     Who  mourns 
Or  rules  with  Him,  while  days  go  on  ? 

By  anguish  which  made' pale  the  sun, 
I  hear  Him  charge  His  saints  that  none 
Among  His  creatures  anywhere 
Blaspheme  against  Him  with  despair, 
However  darkly  days  go  on. 

Take  from  my  head  the  thorn-wreath  brown ! 
No  mortal  grief  deserves  that  crown. 

0  supreme  Love,  chief  Misery, 
The  sharp  regalia  are  for  Thee 
Whose  days  eternall}^  go  on  ! 
For  us — whatever's  undergone, 
Thou  knowest,  wiliest  what  is  done. 
Grief  may  be  joy  misunderstood  ; 
Only  the  Good  discerns  the  good. 

1  trust  Thee  while  my  days  go  on. 


132  A      MUSICAL     INSTRUMENT. 

Whatever's  lost,  it  first  was  won^y^^^^^z-y 

"We  will  not  struggle  nor  impugrK^ 

Perhaps  the  cup  was  broken  here, 

That  Heaven's  new  wine  might  show  more  clear. 

I  praise  Thee  while  ray  days  go  on. 

I  praise  Thee  while  my  days  go  on  ; 

I  love  Thee  while  my  days  go  on  : 

Through  dark  and  dearth,  through  fire  and  frost 

With  emptied  arms  and  treasure  lost, 

I  thank  Thee  while  my  days  go  on. 

And  having  in  Thy  life-depth  thrown 
Being  and  suffering  (which  are  one). 
As  a  child  drops  his  pebble  small 
Down  some  deep  well,  and  hears  it  fall 
Smiling— so  I.     Thy  days  go  on. 


A  MUSICAL  INSTRUMENT. 

What  w^as  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan, 

Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  river  ? 
Spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban. 
Splashing  and  paddling  with  hoofs  of  a  goat, 
And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 
With  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river. 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the  deep  cool  bed  of  the  river: 

The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran. 

And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay, 

And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away. 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

High  on  the  shore  sat  the  great  god  Pan, 

While  turbidly  flowed  the  river  ; 
And  hacked  and  hewed  as  a  great  god  can. 
With  his  bard  bleak  steel  at  the  patient  reed. 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  a  leaf  indeed 
To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan, 
(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river !) 

Then  drew  the  pith,  like  the  heart  of  a  man, 

Steadily  from  the  outside  ring, 

And  notched  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 
In  holes,  as  he  sat  by  the  river. 


FIRST    NEWp   FROM    VILLAFRANCA.        13S 

"This  is  the  way,"  laughed  the  great  god  Pan, 

(Laughed  while  he  sat  b}'  the  river,) 
"  The  only  way,  since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed." 
Then,  diopi)ing  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the  reed, 

He  blew  in  power  by  the  river. 
Sweet,  svveet,  sweet,  O  Pan ! 

Piercing  sweet  b3'  the  river  I 
Blinding  sweet,  O  great  god  Pan! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die, 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 
Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan, 

To  laugh  as  he  sits  by  the  river, 
Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man  : 
The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  pain — 
For  the  reed  which  grows  nevermore  again 

As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  in  the  rivei\ 


FIRST   NEWS  FROM  YILLAFRANCA. 

Peace,  peace,  peace,  do  3'ou  say  ? 

What ! — with  the  enemj-'s  guns  in  our  ears? 

With  the  country's  wrong  not  rendered  back? 
What ! — while  Austria  stands  at  bay 

In  Mantua,  and  our  Venice  bears 

The  cursed  flag  of  the  yellow  and  black  ? 
Peace,  peace,  peace,  do  you  say  ? 

And  this  the  Mincio  ?     Where's  the  fleet. 

And  Where's  the  sea  ?     Are  we  all  blind 
Or  mad  with  the  blood  shed  yesterday, 

Ignoring  Italy  under  our  feet, 

And  seeing  things  before,  behind  ? 
Peace,  peace,  peace,  do  3'ou  say  ? 

W^hat ! — uncontested,  undenied  ? 

Because  we  triumph,  we  succumb  ? 
A  pair  of  Emperors  stand  in  the  way, 

(One  of  whom  is  a  man,  beside) 

To  sign  and  seal  our  cannons  dumb? 
No,  not  Napoleon  ! — he  who  mused 

At  Paris,  and  at  Milan  spake, 

And  at  Solferino  led  the  fight : 
Not  he  we  trusted,  honored,  used 


134         VICTOR   EMANUEL   IN    FLORENCE. 

Our  hopes  and  hearts  for  .  ,  till  they  breaks 

Even  so,  3'ou  tell  us  .  .  in  his  sight. 
Peace,  peace,  is  still  your  word  ? 

We  say  you  lie  then  ! — that  is  plain. 

There  is  no  peace,  and  shall  be  none. 
Our  very  Dead  would  cry  "  Absurd  !  " 

And  clamor  that  they  died  in  vain. 

And  whine  to  come  back  to  the  sun. 
Hush  !  more  reverence  for  the  Dead  ! 

They^vG-done  the  most  for  Italy 

Evermoi-e  since  the  earth  was  fair. 
Now  would  that  we  had  died  instead, 

Still  dreaming  peace  meant  liberty, 

And  did  not,  could  not  mean  despair. 
Peace,  you  sa}^  ? — 3'es,  peace,  in  truth  ! 

But  such  a  peace  as  the  ear  can  achieve 

'Twixt  the  rifle's  click  and  the  rush  of  the  ball, 
'Twixt  the  tiger's  spring  and  the  crunch  of  the  tooth, 

'Twixt  the  dying  atheist's  negative 

And  God's  Face — waiting,  after  all ! 


KING  YICTOR  EMANUEL  ENTERING 
FLORENCE,  APRIL,  1860. 

King  of  us  all,  we  cried  to  thee,  cried  to  thee, 
Trampled  to  earth  by  the  beasts  impure. 
Dragged  by  the  chariots  which  shame  as  they  roll 

The  dust  of  our  torment  far  and  wide  to  thee 
Went  up,  dark'ning  th}'^  royal  soul. 
Be  witness,  Cavour, 

That  the  King  was  sad  for  the  people  in  thrall, 
This  King  of  us  all ! 

King,  we  cried  to  thee  1  Strong  in  replying, 

Thy  word  and  thy  sword  sprang  rapid  and  sure, 
Cleaving  our  vfa,y  to  a  nation's  place. 

Oh,  first  soldier  of  Italj^ ! — crying 

Now  grateful,  exultant,  we  look  in  thy  face. 
Be  witness,  Cavour, 

That,  freedom's  first  soldier,  the  freed  should  call 
First  King  of  them  all ! 

This  is  our  beautiful  Italy's  birthday; 

High-thoughted  souls,  whether  many  or  fewer, 
Bring  her  the  gift,  and  wish  her  the  good, 

While  Heaven  presents  on  this  sunny  earth-day 


VICTOR     EMANUEL    IN     FLORENCE.        18i 

The  noble  King  to  the  land  renewed  : 
Be  witness,  Cavour ! 
Roar,  cannon-mouths  !  Proclaim,  install 
'rhe  King  of  us  all  1 

Grave  he  rides  through  the  Florence  gateway, 
Clenchiug  his  face  into  calm,  to  immure 
His  struggling  heart  till  it  half  disappears  ; 
If  he  relaxed  for  a  moment,  straightway 
He  would  break  out  into  passionate  tears — 
(Be  witness,  Cavour  !) 
While  rings  the  cry  without  interval, 
"  Live,  King  of  us  all !  " 

Cr3^  free  peoples  !  Honor  the  nation 

By  crowning  the  true  man — and  none  is  truer  ; 
Pisa  is  here,  and  Livorno  is  here, 
And  thousands  of  faces,  iu  wild  exultation, 
Burn  over  the  windows  to  feel  him  iiear — 
(Be  witness,  Cavour  !) 
Burn  over  from  terrace,  roof,  window  and  wall, 
On  this  King  of  us  all. 

Grave  1     A  good  man's  ever  the  graver 
For  bearing  a  nation's  trust  secure  ; 
And  he,  he  thinks  of  the  Heart,  beside, 
Which  broke  for  Italy,  failing  to  save  her. 
And  pining  away  bj-  Oporto's  tide  : 
Be  witness,  Cavour, 
That  he  thinks  of  his  vow  on  that  royal  pall, 
This  King  of  us  all. 

Flowers,  flowers,  from  the  flowery  city! 
Such  innocent  thanks  I'or  a  deed  so  pure, 
As,  melting  away  for  joy  into  flowers, 
The  nation  invites  him  to  enter  his  Pitti 

And  evermore  reign  in  this  Florence  of  ours. 
Be  witness,  Cavour! 
He'll  stand  where  the  reptiles  were  used  to  crawl, 

This  King  of  us  all. 
Grave,  as  the  manner  of  noble  men  is — 
Deeds  unfinished  will  weigh  on  the  doer: 
And,  baring  his  head  to  those  crape-veiled  flags, 
He  bows  to  the  grief  of  the  South  and  Venice. 
Oh,  riddle  the  last  of  the  yellow  to  rags, 
And  swear  by  Cavour 
That  the  King  shall  reign  where  the  tyrants  fell, 
True  Kincr  of  us  all  I 


136  THE      SWORD      OF     CASTRACANI 

THE  SWORD  OF  CASTRUCCIO  CASTRACANI 

''  Q'lesta  i  per  me." — King  Victor  Emanuel. 

When  Yictor  Emanuel  the  King, 

Went  clown  to  his  Lucca  that  da}'-, 
The  people,  each  vaunting  the  thing 

As  he  gave  it,  gave  all  things  away — 

In  a  burst  of  fierce  gratitude,  say, 
As  they  tore  out  their  hearts  for  the  King. 
Gave  the  green  forest-walk  on  the  wall, 

With  the  Apennine  blue  through  the  trees  ; 
Gave  the  palaces,  churches,  and  all 

The  great  pictures  which  burn  out  of  these: 

But  the  e3'es  of  the  King  seemed  to  freeze 
As  he  glanced  upon  ceiling  and  wall. 
"  Good,"  said  the  King  as  he  passed. 

Was  he  cold  to  the  arts  ? — or  else  coy 
To  possession  ?   or  crossed,  at  the  last, 

(Whispered  some)  by  the  vote  in  Savoy? 

Shout !     Love  him  enough  for  his  joy  ! 
"  Good,"  said  the  King  as  he  passed. 
lie,  travelling  the  whole  day  through  flowers 

And  protesting  amenities,  found 
At  Pistoia,  betwixt  the  two  showers 

Of  red  roses,  the  "Orphans,"  (renow'ned 

As  the  heirs  of  Puccini)  who  wound 
With  a  sword  through  the  crowd  and  the  flowers 
"  'Tis  the  sword  of  Castruccio,  O  King — 

In  that  strife  of  intestinal  hate, 
Very  famous !     Accept  what  we  bring, 

^\e  who  cannot  be  sons,  by  our  fate. 

Rendered  citizens  by  thee  of  late. 
And  endowed  with  a  country'  and  king. 
"  Read  !     Puccini  has  willed  that  this  sword 

(Which  once  made  in  an  ignorant  feud 
Many  orphans)  remain  in  our  ward 

Till  some  patriot  its  pure  civic  blood 

Wipe  away  in  the  foe's  and  make  good, 
In  delivering  the  land  by  the  sword." 
Then  the  King  exclaimed,  "  This  is  for  me  P^ 

And  he  dashed  out  his  hand  on  the  hilt, 
While  his  blue  eye  shot  fire  openly, 

And  his  heart  overboiled  till  it  spilt 

A  hot  prayer — "  God  !  the  rest  as  Thou  wilt  I 
But  grant  me  this  1 — This  is  for  ?He." 


SUMMING     UP     IN     ITALY.  1 S7 

O  Victor  Emanuel,  the  King, 

The  sword  be  for  thee,  and  the  deed, 

And  nought  for  the  alien,  next  spring, 

Nought  for  Ilapsburg  and  Bourbon  agreed — 
But,  for  us,  a  great  Italy  freed, 

With  a  hero  to  head  us — our  Kingl 


SUMMING   UP    IN   ITALY. 

(^INSCRIBED    TO    INTELLIGENT    PUBLICS    OUT    OF    IT.) 

Observe  how  it  will  be  at  last, 

When  our  Ital}-  stands  at  full  stature, 
A  year  ago  tied  down  so  fast 

That  the  cord  cut  the  quick  of  her  nature  1 
You'll  honor  the  deed  and  its  scope, 

Then  :n  logical  sequence  upon  it. 
Will  use  up  tlie  remnants  of  rope 

By  hanging  the  men  who  have  done  it. 

The  speech  in  the  Commons,  which  hits  you 

A  sketch  off,  how  dungeons  must  feel — 
The  official  dispatch,  which  commits  you 

From  stamping  out  groans  with  your  heel- 
Suggestions  in  journal  or  book  for 

Good  efforts — are  praised  as  is  meet : 
But  what  in  this  world  can  men  look  for, 

Who  only  achieve  and  complete  ? 

True,  you've  praise  for  the  fireman  who  sets  his 

Brave  face  to  the  axe  of  the  flame, 
Disappears  in  the  smoke,  and  then  fetches 

A  babe  down,  or  idiot  that's  lame — 
For  the  boor  even,  who  rescues  through  pity 

A  sheep  from  the  brute  who  would  kick  it: 
But  saviors  of  nations  I — 'tis  pretty, 

And  doubtful :  they  may  be  so  wicked; 

Azeglio,  Farini,.  Mamiani, 

Ricasoli — doubt  by  the  dozen  ! — here's 
Pepoli  too,  and  Cipriani, 

Imperial  cousins  and  cozeners — 
Arese,  Laiatico — courtly 

Of  manners,  if  stringent  of  mouth : 
Garibaldi !  we'll  come  to  him  shortly, 

(As  soon  as  he  ends  in  the  South). 


138  SUMMING     UP     IJV     ITALY- 

Napoleon — as  strong  as  ten  armies, 

Corrupt  as  seven  devils — a  fact 
You  accede  to,  then  seeiv  whtre  the  harm  is 

Drained  off'  from  the  man  to  his  act, 
And  find — a  free  nation  !     Suppose 

Some  hell-brood  in  Eden's  sweet  greenery, 
Convoked  for  creating — a  rose  ! 

Would  it  suit  the  infernal  machinery  ? 

Cavour — to  the  despot's  desire, 

Who  his  own  thoughts  so  craftil>'  marries — 
What  is  he  but  just  a  tliin  wire 

For  conducting  the  lightning  from  Paris? 
Yes,  write  down  the  two  as  compeers, 

Confessing  (you  would  not  permit  a  lie) 
He  bore  up  his  Piedmont  ten  years 

Till  she  suddenly  smiled  and  was  Itah'. 

And  the  King,  with  that  "stain  on  his  scutcheon,"* 

Savo}' — as  the  calumny  runs  ; 
(If  it  be  not  his  blood — with  his  clutch  on 

The  sword,  and  his  face  to  the  guns). 

0  first,  where  the  battle-storm  gathers, 
0  loyal  of  heart  on  the  throne. 

Let  those  keep  the  "graves  of  their  fathers," 
Who  quail,  in  a  nerve,  from  their  own  1 

For  thee — through  the  dim  Hades-portal 

The  dream  of  a  voice — "  Blessed  thou 
"  Who  hast  made  all  thy  race  twice  immortal  I 

No  need  of  the  sepulchres  now  I 
— Left  to  Bourbons  and  Hapsburgs,  who  fester 

Above-ground  with  worm-eaten  souls. 
While  the  ghost  of  some  pale  feudal  jester 

Before  them  strews  treaties  in  holes." 

But  hush  ! — am  I  dreaming  a  poem 

Of  Hades,  Heaven,  Justice?     Not  I — 

1  began  too  far  off",  in  my  proem. 

With  what  men  believe  and  deny: 
And  on  earth,  whatsoever  the  need  is, 

(To  sum  up  as  thoughtful  reviewers) 
The  moral  of  every  great  deed  is 

The  virtue  of  slandering  the  doers. 

♦  Blue  Book.     Diplomatical  Correspondence. 


THE      FORCED      RECRUIT.  I39 

THE  FORCED  RECRUIT. 

SOLFERIXO,     1850. 

In  the  ranks  of  the  Austrian  you  found  him. 

lie  died  with  liis  face  to  you  all ; 
Yet  bury  him  here  where  around  him 

You  honor  your  bravest  that  fall. 
Venetian,  fair-featured  and  slender, 

lie  lies  shot  to  death  in  his  youth, 
With  a  smile  on  his  lips  over-tender 

For  any  mere  soldier's  dead  mouth. 
No  stranger,  and  j-et  not  a  traitor. 

Though  alien  the  cloth  on  his  breast, 
Underneath  it  how  seldom  a  greater 

Young  heart,  has  a  shot  sent  to  rest ! 
By  your  enemy  tortured  and  goaded 

To  march  with  them,  stand  in  their  file, 
His  musket  (see)  never  was  loaded. 

He  facing  your  guns  with  that  smile! 
As  orphans  yearn  on  to  their  mothers, 

He  yearned  to  your  patriot  bands  ; — 
"  Let  me  die  for  our  Ital}',  brothers. 

If  not  in  3-our  ranks,  by  your  hands  ! 
"  Aim  straighth',  fire  steadily  !  spare  me 

A  ball  in  the  body  which  may 
Deliver  my  heart  here,  and  tear  me 

This  badge  of  the  Austrian  away!" 
So  thought  he,  so  died  he  this  morning. 

What  then  ?  many  others  have  died. 
Ay,  but  easy  for  men  to  die  scorning 

The  death-stroke,  who  fought  side  by  side; 
One  tricolor  floating  above  them  ; 

Struck  down  'mid  triumphant  acclaims 
Of  an  Italy  rescued  to  love  them 

And  blazon  the  brass  with  their  names. 
But  he — without  witness  or  honor. 

Mixed,  shamed  in  his  country's  regard. 
With  the  tyrants  who  march  in  upon  her 

Died  faithful  and  passive:  'twas  hard. 
'Twas  sublime.     In  a  cruel  restriction 

Cut  off  from  the  guerdon  of  sons. 
With  most  filial  obedience,  conviction, 

His  soul  kissed  the  lips  of  her  guns. 


I  10 


GARIBALDI. 


That  moves  you?  Nay,  grudge  not  to  show  it, 
While  digging  a  grave  for  him  here 

The  others  who  died,  says  your  poet, 
Have  glory — let  him  have  a  tear. 


GAFvIBALDL 

He  bent  his  head  upon  his  breast 

Wherein  his  lion-heart  lay  sick : — 
"  Perhaps  we  are  not  ill-repaid  ; 
Perhaps  this  is  not  a  true  test ; 
Perliaps  that  was  not  a  foul  trick ; 
Perhaps  none  wronged,  and  none  betrayed. 
"  Perhaps  the  people's  vote  which  here 
United,  there  may  disunite. 
And  both  be  lawful  as  they  think  ; 
Perhaps  a  patriot  statesman,  dear 

For  chartering  nations,  can  with  right 
Disfranchise  those  who  hold  the  ink. 
"  Perhaps  men's  wisdom  is  not  craft ; 
Men's  greatness,  not  a  selfish  greed  ; 
Men's  justice,  not  tlie  safer  side; 
Perhaps  even  women,  when  they  laughed. 
Wept,  thanked  us  that  the  land  was  freed, 
Not  wholly  (though  they  kissed  us)  lied. 
"  Perhaps  no  more  than  this  we  meant, 
When  up  at  Austria's  guns  we  flew, 
And  quenched  them  with  a  cry  apiece, 
Italia  ! — Yet  a  dream  was  sent  .  . 
The  little  house  my  father  knew, 
The  olives  and  the'  palms  of  Nice." 
He  paused,  and  drew  his  sword  out  slow, 
Then  poured  upon  the  blade  intent, 
As  if  to  read  some  written  thing  ; 
While  many  murmured — "  He  will  go 
In  that  despairing  sentiment 
And  break  his  sword  before  the  King." 
He  poring  still  upon  the  blade. 

His  large  lid  quivered,  something  fell. 
"  Perhaps,"  he  said,  "  I  was  not  born 
With  such  fine  brains  to  treat  and  trade— 
And  if  a  woman  knew  it  well. 
Her  falsehood  only  meant  her  .scorn. 


ONLY     A     CURL. 

"Yet  through  Tarese's  cannon-sraoke 
M}^  eyes  saw  clear:  men  feared  this  mau 
At  Como,  whore  this  sword  could  seal 

Death's  protocol  with  every  stroke  : 

And  now  .  .  the  drop  there  scarcely  can 
Impair  the  keenness  of  the  steel. 

So  man  and  sword  may  have  their  use ; 

And  if  the  soil  beneath  my  foot 

In  valor's  act  is  forfeited, 
I'll  strike  the  harder,  take  my  dues 

Out  nobler,  and  all  loss  confute 

From  ampler  heavens  above  my  head. 
"My  King,  King  Victor,  I  am  thine! 

So  ranch  Nice-dust  as  what  I  am 

(To  make  our  Italy)  must  cleave. 
Forgive  that."     Forward  with  a  sign 

He  went. 

You've  seen  the  telegram  ? 

Palermo^s  taken,  we  believe. 


ONLl^  A  CURL. 

Friends  of  faces  unknown  and  a  land 

Unvisited  over  the  sea, 
Who  tell  me  how  lonely  j'ou  stand 
With  a  single  gold  curl  in  the  hand 

Held  up  to  be  looked  at  by  me — 

While  you  ask  me  to  ponder  and  say 

What  a  father  and  mother  can  do, 
With  the  bright  fellow-locks  put  away 
Out  of  reach,  beyond  kiss,  in  the  clay 
Where  the  violets  press  nearer  than  you. 

Shall  I  speak  like  a  poet,  or  run 

Into  weak  woman's  tears  for  relief? 
Oh,  children  ! — I  never  lost  one — 
Yet  my  arm's  round  my  one  little  son, 
And  Love  knows  the  secret  of  Grief. 

And  I  feel  what  it  must  be  and  is, 
When  God  draws  a  new  angel  so 
Throutih  the  house  of  a  man  up  to  His, 
With  a  murmur  of  music,  you  miss. 
And  a  rapture  of  light,  you  forego. 


141 


242 


ONLY      A      CURL 


How  you  think,  staring  on  at  the  door, 

Wliere  the  face  of  your  angel  flashed  in. 
That  its  brightness,  familiar  before, 
Burns  off  from  you  ever  the  more 

For  the  dark  of  your  sorrow  and  sin. 
"  God  lent  him  and  takes  him,"  you  sigh ; 

— Nay,  there.let  me  break  with  your  pain: 
God's  generous  in  giving,  say  I — 
And  the  thing  which  He  gives,  I  deny 

That  He  ever  can  take  back  again. 
He  gives  what  He  gives.     I  appeal 

To  all  who  bear  babss — in  the  hour 
When  the  veil  of  the  body  we  feel 
Kent  round  us — while  torments  reveal 

The  motherhood's  advent  in  power. 
And  the  babe  cries ! — has  each  of  us  known 

By  apocalypse  (God  being  there 
Full  in  nature)  the  child  is  our  own, 
Life  of  life,  love  of  love,  moan  of  moan, 

Through  all  changes,  all  times,  every  whei«. 
He's  ours  and  forever.     Believe, 

O  father! — 0  mother,  look  back 
To  the  first  love's  assurance.     To  give 
Means  with  God  not  to  tempt  or  deceive 

With  a  cup  thrust  in  Benjamin's  sack. 
He  gives  what  He  gives.     Be  content ! 

He  resumes  nothing  given — be  sure  I 
God  lend  ?     Where  the  usurers  lent 
In  His  temple,  indignant  He  went 

And  scourged  away  all  those  impure. 
He  lends  not;  but  gives  to  the  end, 

As  He  loves  to  the  end.     If  it  seem 
That  He  draws  back  a  gift,  comprehend 
'Tis  to  add  to  it  rathei* — amend. 

And  finish  it  up  to  your  dream — 
Or  keep — as  a  mother  ma)"^  toys 

Too  costl,y,  though  given  by  herself. 
Till  the  room  shall  be  stiller  from  noise, 
And  the  children  more  fit  for  such  joys. 

Kept  over  their  heads  on  the  shelf 
So  look  up,  friends !  you,  who  indeed 

Have  possessed  in  your  house  a  sweet  piece 
Of  the  Heaven  which  men  strive  for,  must  need 
Be  more  earnest  than  others  are — speed 

Where  they  loiter,  persist  where  they  cease. 


THE      ROM  A  N     C  A  M  P  A  G  N  A  .  j  43 

You  know  how  one  angel  smiles  there. 

Then  courage.     'Tis  easy  lor  you 
To  be  drawn  b}'  a  single  gold  hair 
Of  that  curl,  from  earth's  storm  and  despair 

To  the  safe  place  above  us.     Adieu. 


A.   VIEW  ACROSS  THE    ROMAN  CAMPAGNA 

1861. 

Over  the  dumb  Campagna-sea, 

Out  in  the  offing  through  mist  and  rain, 
Saint  Peter's  Church  heaves  silently 

Like  a  might}'^  ship  in  pain, 

Facing  the  tempest  with  struggle  and  strain. 
Motionless  waifs  of  ruined  towers, 

Soundless  breakers  of  desolate  laud: 
The  sullen  snrf  of  tlie  mist  devours 

That  mountain-range  upon  either  hand, 

Eaten  away  from  its  outline  grand. 
And  over  the  dumb  Campagna-sea 

Where  the  ship  of  the  Church  heaves  on  to  wreck, 
Alone  and  silent  as  God  must  be, 

The  Christ  walks.    Ay,  but  Peter's  neck 

Is  stift' to  turn  on  the  foundering  deck. 
Pete",  Peter !  if  such  be  thy  name. 

Now  leave  the  ship  for  another  to  steer, 
And  proving  thy  faith  evermore  the  same. 

Come  forth,  tread  out  through  the  dark  and  drear, 

Since  He  who  walks  on  the  sea  is  here. 
Peter,  Peter !    He  does  not  speak  ; 

He  is  not  as  rash  as  in  old  Galilee: 
Safer  a  ship,  though  it  toss  and  leak, 

Than  a  reeling  foot  on  a  rolling  sea ! 

And  he's  got  to  be  round  in  the  girth,  thinks  he. 
Peter,  Peter !    He  does  not  stir ; 

His  nets  are  heav}-  with  silver  fish  ; 
He  reckons  his  gains,  and  is  keen  to  infer 

— "  The  broil  on  the  shore,  if  the  Lord  should  wish  j 

But  the  sturgeon  goes  to  the  Caesar's  dish." 
Peter,  Peter  !  thou  fisher  of  men, 

Fisher  offish  wouldst  thou  live  instead? 
Haggling  for  pence  with  tlie  other  Ten, 

Cheating  the  market  at  so  much  a  head, 

Griping  the  Bag  of  the  traitor  Dead  ? 


114  PARTING     LOVERS. 

At  the  triple  crow  of  the  Gallic  cock 

Thou  weep'st  not,  thou,  though  thine  eyes  be  dazed 

What  bird  comes  next  in  the  tempest-shock  ? 
— Vultures  1  see — as  when  Romulus  gazed — 
To  inaugurate  Rome  for  a  world  amazed ! 


PARTING    LOVERS. 

SIENA,     1860. 

I  LOVE  thee,  love  thee,  Giulio  ; 

Some  call  me  cold,  and  some  demure; 
And  if  thou  hast  ever  guessed  that  so 

I  loved  thee  .  .  well,  the  proof  was  poor, 
And  no  one  could  be  sure. 
Before  th}^  song  (with  shifted  rhymes 

To  suit  my  name)  did  I  undo 
The  Persian  ?     If  it  moved  sometimes, 

Thou  hast  not  seen  a  hand  push  through 
A  foolish  flower  or  two. 
My  mother  listening  to  my  slee]), 

Heard  nothing  but  a  sigh  at  night — 
The  short  sigh  rippling  on  the  deep, 

When  hearts  run  out  of  breath  and  sight 
Of  men,  to  God's  clear  light. 
When  others  name  tliee — thought  th^^  brows 

Were  straight,,  thy  smile  was  tender — "  Here 
He  comes  between  the  vineyard-rows  " 

I  said  not  "  Ay,"  nor  waited.  Dear, 
To  feel  thee  step  too  near. 
I  left  such  things  to  bolder  girls — 

Olivia  or  Clotilda.     Nay, 
"When  that  Clotilda,  through  her  curls. 

Held  both  thine  eyes  in  hers  one  day, 
I  marvelled,  let  me  say. 
I  could  not  try  the  woman's  trick  : 

Between  us  straightway  fell  the  blush 
Which  kept  me  separate,  blind  and  sick. 

A  wind  came  with  thee  in  a  flush. 
As  blown  through  Iloreb's  bush. 
But  now  that  Italy  invokes 

Her  young  men  to  go  forth  and  chase 
The  foe  or  perish — nothing  chokes 

M}'  voice,  or  drives  me  from  the  place 
I  look  thee  in  the  face. 


TARTINQ     LOVERS. 

I  love  thee  !     It  is  understood, 
Confest :  I  do  not  shrink  or  start. 

No  blushes!  all  1113'  body's  blood 
Has  gone  to  greaten  tliis  poor  heart, 
That,  loving,  we  may  part. 

Our  Italy  invokes  the  youth 

To  die  if  need  be.     Still  there's  room. 

Though  earth  is  strained  with  dead  in  truth: 
Since  twice  the  lilies  were  in  bloom 
They  have  not  grudged  a  tomb. 

And  many  a  plighted  maid  and  wife 
And  mother,  who  can  say  since  then 

"  My  country  " — cannot  say  througli  life 

"  M3'  son,"  "  my  spouse,"  my  flower  of  men," 
And  not  weep  dumb  again. 

Heroic  males  the  countrj^  bears — 

But  daughters  give  up  more  than  sons: 

Flags  wave,  drums  beat,  and  unawares 
You  flash  your  souls  out  with  the  guns, 
And  take  j^our  Heaven  at  once. 

But  we  ! — we  empty  heart  and  home 
Of  life's  life,  love  !     We  bear  to  think 

You're  gone — to  feel  you  may  not  come — 
To  hear  tlie  door-latch  stir  and  cUnk, 
Yet  no  more  3'ou  !  .  .  nor  sink. 

Dear  God  !  when  Italy  is  one. 

And  perfected  from  bound  to  bound, 

Suppose,  for  my  share,  earth's  undone 
By  one  grave  in't ! — as  one  small  wound 
Ma}'  kill  a  man,  'tis  found. 

What  then  ?  If  love's  delight  must  end, 
At  least  we'll  clear  its  truth  from  flaws. 

I  love  thee,  love  thee,  sweetest  friend  ! 
Now  take  my  sweetest  without  pause, 
To  help  the  nation's  cause. 

And  thus,  of  noble  Italy 

We'll  both  be  M-orthy !     Let  her  show 
The  future  how  we  made  her  free, 

Not  sparing  life  .  .  nor  Giulio, 
Nor  this  .  .  this  heartbreak  I 


145 


146  MOTHER     AND     POET. 

MOTHER  AND  POET. 

Turin,  after  news  from  Gaeta,   18G1. 

Dead  !  One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea. 

Dead  1  both  ray  boys  !  When  j-ou  sit  at  the  feast 
And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for  Italy  free. 
Let  none  look  at  me  ! 

Yet  I  was  a  poetess  onl}'  last  3'ear, 

And  good  at  my  art,  for  a  woman,  men  said  ; 

But  this  woman,  this,  who  is  agonized  here, 

— The  cast  sea  and  west  sea  rh^-me  on  in  her  head 
For  ever  instead. 

What  art  can  a  woman  be  good  at  ?     Oh,  vain  ! 

What  art  is-  she  good  at,  but  hurting  her  breast 
With  the  milk-teeth  of  babes,  and  a  smile  at  the  pain  ? 
Ah  boys,  how  j'ou   hurt !  you   were  strong  as  you 
pressed, 
And  1  proud,  by  that  test. 

What  art's  for  a  woman  ?     To  hold  on  her  knees 
Both    darlings !  to  feel  all   their  arms    round    her 
throat. 
Cling,  strangle  a  little  !  to  sew  b}'  degrees 

And  'broider  the  long-clothes  and  neat  little  coat ; 
To  dream  and  to  doat. 

To  teach  them  .  .  It  stings  there !     I  made  them  in- 
deed 
Speak  plain  the  word  country.     I  taught  them,  no 
doubt. 
That  a  country's  a  thing  men  should  die  for  at  need. 
I  prated  of  liberty,  rights,  and  about 
The  tyrant  cast  out. 

And     when    their    eyes   flashed   .   .   0   my   beautiful 
eyes !  .  . 
J  exulted  ;  nay,  let  them  go  forth  at  the  wheels 
Of  the  guns,  and  denied  not.     But  then  the  surprise 
When  one  sits  quite  alone !     Then  one  weeps,  then 
one  kneels ! 
God,  how  the  house  feels. 

At  first,  happy  news  came,  in  gay  letters  moiled 
With  my  kisses — of  camp-life  and  glory,  and  how 


MOTHER     AND     POET.  ]47 

rhey  both  loved  me;  and,  soon  coming  home  to  be 
spoiled, 
In  return  would  fan  oirevei\y  fly  from  my  brow 
With  their  green  laurel-bough. 
Then  was  triumph  at  Turin  :   "  Ancona  was  free!  " 

And  some  one  came  out  of  the  cheers  in  the  street, 
With  a  face  i)ale  as  stone,  to  sa}'^  something  to  me. 
M}''  Guido  was  dead  1  I  fell  down  at  his  feet, 
AVhile  they  cheered  in  the  street. 
I  bore  it ;  friends  soothed  me  ;  ray  grief  looked   sub- 
lime 
As  the  ransom  of  Ital^'.     One  boy  remained 
To  be  leant  on  nnd  walked  with,  recalling  the  time 
When   the   first  grew  immortal,   while   both  of  ua 
strained 
To  the  height  he  had  gained. 
And  letters  still  came,  shorter,  sadder,  more  strong, 
W^rit  now  but  in  one  hand,  "  I  was  not  to  faint — 
One  loved  me  for  two — would  be  with  me  ere  long  : 
And  Viva  V Italia! — he  died  for  our  saint. 
Who  forbids  our  complaint." 
My  Nanni  would  add,  "  he  was  safe,  and  aware 

Of  a  presence   that  turned   otf  the   balls — was  im^ 
prest 
It  was  Guido  himself,  who  knew  what  I  could  bear, 
And  how  'twas  impossible,  quite  dispossessed, 

To  live  on  for  the  rest." 
On  which,  without  pause,  up  the  telegraph-line 
Swept  smoothly  the  next  news  from  Gaeta  : — Shot, 
Tell  his  mother.     Ah,  ah,  "his,"  "their"  mother — not 
"  mine," 
No  voice  says  "  My  mother"  again  to  me.      What? 
You  think  Guido  forgot  ? 
Are  souls  straight  so  happ}"^  that,  dizzy  with  Heaven , 
They  drop  earth's  affections,  conceive  not  of  woe  ? 
I  think  not.     Themselves  were  too  lately  forgiven 
Through  That  Love  and  Sorrow  which  reconciled  so 
The  Above  and  Below. 
0  Christ  of  the  seven  wounds,  who  look'dst  through 
the  dark 
To  the  face  of  Thy  mother  !  consider,  I  pra}', 
How  we  common  mothers  stand  desolate,  mark, 
W^hose  sons,  not  being  Christs,  die  with  eyes  turned 
away. 
And  no  last  word  to  say  1 


148  nature's    remorses. 

Both  boys  dead  ?  but  that's  out  of  nature.     We  all 
Have  been  patriots,    yet  each  house  must  always 
keep  one. 
>Twere  imbecile,  hewing  out  roads  to  a  wall ; 
And,  when  Italy's  made,  for  what  end  is  it  done 
If  we  have  not  a  son  ? 
Ah,  ah,  ah!  when  Gaeta's  taken,  what  then? 

When  the  fair  wicked  queen  sits   no  more  at  her 
s-port 
Of  the  fire-balls  of  death  crashing  souls  out  of  men  ? 
When  the  guns  of  Cavalli  with  final  retort 
Have  cut  the  game  short  ? 
When  Venice  and  Rome  keep  their  new  jubilee, 

When  your  flag  takes  all  heaven  for  its  white,  green 
and  red, 
When  you  have  your  country  from  mountain  to  sea, 
When  King  Victor  has  Italy's  crown  on  his  head, 
(And  /  have  my  Dead) — 
What  then  ?     Do  not  mock  me.     Ah,  ring  your  bells 
low. 
And    burn    your    lights    faintly!     My  country  is 
there, 
Above  the  star-pricked  by  the  last  peak  of  snow : 
My  Italy's  there,  with  my  brave  civic  Pair, 
To  disfranchise  despair! 
Forgive  me.     Some  women  bear  children  in  strength, 

And  bite  back  the  cry  of  their  pain  in  self-scorn  ; 
But  the  birth-pangs  of  nations  will  wring  us  at  length 
Into  wail  such  as  this — and  we  sit  on  forlorn 
When  the  man-child  is  born. 
Dead  !     One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east, 

And  one  of  tliem  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea. 
Both  !  both  my  boys  !     If  in  keeping  the  feast 
You  want  a  great  song  for  your  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me  1 

[This  was  Laura  Savio,  of  Turin,  a  poetess  and  patriot,  whoBe 
ions  were  killed  at  Ancona  and  Gaeta.] 


NATURE'S  REMORSES. 

KoME,  18G1. 

Her  soul  was  bred  by  a  throne,  and  fed 
From  the  sucking-bottle  used  in  her  race 


nature's     remorses.  119 

On  starch  and  water  (for  mother's  milk 
Which  gives  a  larger  growth  instead), 
And,  out  of  the  natural  liberal  grace, 
Was  swaddled  away  in  violet  silk. 
And  young  and  kind,  and  royally  blind, 
Forth  she  stei)ped  from  her  palace-door 
On  three-piled  carpet  of  compliments, 
Curtains  of  incense  drawn  by  the  wind 
In  between  her  for  evermore 
And  daylight  issues  of  events. 
On  she  drew,  as  a  queen  might  do, 
To  meet  a  Dream  of  Italy — 

Of  magical  town  and  musical  wave. 
Where  even  a  god,  his  amulet  blue 
Of  shining  sea,  in  an  ecstasy 

Dropt  and  forgot  in  a  nereid's  cave. 
Down  she  goes,  as  the  soft  wind  blows, 
To  live  more  smoothly  than  mortals  can, 
To  love  and  to  reign  as  queen  and  wife. 
To  wear  a  crown  that  smells  of  a  rose, 
And  still,  with  a  sceptre  as  light  as  a  fan, 
Beat  sweet  time  to  the  song  of  life. 
What  is  this?     As  quick  as  a  kiss 

Falls  tiie  smile  from  her  girlish  mouth  1 
The  lion-people  has  left  its  lair, 
Roaring  along  her  garden  of  bliss, 

And  the  fiery  underworld  of  the  South 
Scorched  a  way  to  the  upper  air. 
And  a  fire-stone  ran  in  the  form  of  a  man, 
Burningly,  boundingly,  fatal  and  fell. 

Bowling  the  kingdom  down  !     Where  was  the 
king  ? 
She  had  heard  somewhat,  since  life  began. 
Of  terrors  on  earth  and  horrors  in  hell. 
But  never,  never  of  such  a  thing ! 
You    think    she    dropped    when    her    dream     wa3 
stopped, 
When  the  blotch  of  Bourbon  blood  inlay, 
Lividly  rank,  her  new  lord's  cheek  ? 
Not  so.     Her  high  heart  overtopped 
The  royal  part  she  had  come  to  play. 
Only  the  men  in  that  hour  were  weak. 
And  twice  a  wife  by  her  ravaged  life. 
And  twice  a  queen  by  her  kingdom  lost, 
She  braved  the  shock  and  the  counter-shock 


ioO     THE  NORTH  AND  THE  SOUTH. 

Of  hero  and  traitor,  bullet  and  knife, 

While  Italy  pushed,  like  a  vengeful  ghost, 
That  son  of  the  Cursed  from  Gaeta's  rock. 
"What  will  ye  give  her,  who  could  not  deliver, 
German  Princesses  ?     A  laurel-wreath 
All  over-scored  with  3'our  signatures, 
Graces,  Serenities,  Highnesses  ever? 

Mock  her  not,  fresh  from  the  truth  of  Death, 
Conscious  of  dignities  higlier  than  yours. 
What  will  ye  put  in  your  casket  shut, 
Ladies  of  Paris,  in  sympathy's  name  ? 

Guizot's  daughter,  wha^  have  you  brought  her! 
Withered  immortelles,  long  ago  cut 

For  guilty  dynasties  perished  in  siiame. 
Putrid  to  memor}',  Guizot's  daughter  ? 
Ah  poor  queen  !  so  young  and  serene  ! 

What  shall  we  do  for  her,  now  hope's  dopo, 
Standing  at  Rome  in  these  ruins  old. 
She  too  a  ruin  and  no  more  a  queen  ? 
Leave  her  that  diadem  made  by  the  sun, 
Turning  her  hair  to  an  innocent  gold. 
Ay !  bring  close  to  her,  as  'twere  a  rose,  to  her. 
Yon  free  child  from  an  Apennine  city 
Singing  for  Italy — dumb  in  the  place  1 
Something  like  solace,  let  us  suppose,  to  her 
Given,  in  that  homage  of  wonder  and  pity. 
By  his  pure  eyes  to  her  beautiful  face. 
Nature,  excluded,  savagely  brooded, 

Ruined  all  queendom  and  dogmas  of  state — 
Then  in  reaction  remorseful  and  mild. 
Rescues  the  womanhood,  nearly  eluded. 

Shows  her  what's  sweetest  in  womanly  fate — 
Sunshine  from  Heaven,  and  the  eyes  of  o^child 


THE  NORTH  AND  THE  SOUTH 

[the  last  poem.] 
Rome,  J[ay,   1861. 

"Now  give  us  lands  where  the  olives  grow," 

Cried  the  North  to  the  South, 
"  Where  the  sun  with  a  golden  mouth  can  blow 
Blue  bubbles  of  grapes  down  a  vineyard  rowl" 
Cried  the  North  to  the  South. 


THE     NOUTII     AND     THE     SOUTH. 

"  Now  give  us  men  from  the  sunless  plain," 

Cried  tlie  South  to  the  North, 
''  By  need  of  work  in  the  snow  and  the  rain, 
Made  strong,  and  brave  l^y  familiar  pain  !" 

Cri'^d  'ohe  South  to  tlie  North. 

"  Give  lucider  hills  and  intenser  seas," 

Said  the  North  to  the  South, 
"  Since  ever  b}'  synilwls  and  bright  degrees 
Art,  childlike,  climbs  to  the  dear  Lord's  knees,'' 

Said  the  North  to  .the  South. 

"  Give  strenuous  souls  for  belief  and  pra3-er," 

Said  the  South  to  the  North, 
"  That  stand  in  the  dark  on  the  lowest  stair, "" 
While  atfirming  of  God,  '  He  is  certainly  there,'" 

Said  the  South  to  the  North. 

"Yet  oh,  for  the  skies  that  are  softer  and  higher!" 

Sighed  the  North  to  the  South; 
••  For  the  flowers  that  blaze,  and  the  trees  that  aspire, 
And  the  insects  made  of  a  song  or  a  fire  !" 
Sighed  tiie  North  to  the  South. 

"And  oh,  for  a  seer  to  discern  the  same  !" 

Sighed  the  Soutli  to  the  North ; 
"  For  a  poet's  tongue  of  baptismal  flame, 
To  call  the  tree  or  the  flower  by  its  name!" 
Sighed  the  South  to  the  North. 

The  North  sent  therefore  a  man  of  men 

As  a  grace  to  the  South  ; 
And  th.tis  to  Rome  came  Andersen. 
— "  Alas,  but  mui>t  you  take  him  again  V^ 

Said  the  South  to  the  North. 


TRANSLATIONS. 
PARAPHRASE  ON  THEOCRITUS. 


THE  CYCLOPS. 

(Idyll  XI.) 

And  so  an  easier  life  our  Cyclops  drew, 

The  ancient  Polyphemus,  who  in  youth 
Lovd  Galatea,  while  the  manhood  grew 

Adown  his  cheeks  and  darkened   round  his  mouth 
No  jot  he  cared  for  apples,  olives,  roses  ; 

Love  made  him    mad:   tlie  whole   world  was    neg 
iected. 
The  very  sheep  went  backward  to  their  closes 
From' out  the  fair  green  pastures,  self-directed. 
And  singing  Galatea,  tluis,  he  wore 
The  sunrise  down  along  the  weedy  shore, 
And  pined  alone,  and  felt  the  cruel  wound 

Beneath  his  heart,  which  Cypris'  arrow  bore, 
With  a  deep  pang ;  but,  so,  the  cure  was  found  ; 
And  sitting  on  a  loft,y  rock  he  cast 
His  e^-es  upon  the  sea,  and  sang  at  last : — 

"  0  whitest  Galatea,  can  it  be 

That  thou  shouidst  spurn  me  off  who  iove  thee  so? 
More  white  than  curds,  my  girl,  thou  art  to  see, 
More  meek  than  lambs,  more  full  of  leaping  glee 

Than  kids,  and  brighter  than  the  early  glow 
On  grapes  that  swell  to  ripen —  sour  like  thee  ! 
Thou  comest  to  me  with  the  fragrant  sleep. 

And  with  the  fragrant  sleep  thou  goest  Irom  me; 
Thou  fliest  .  .  fliest,  as  a  frightened   sheep 

Flies  the  grey  wolf! — yet  Love  did  overcome  me. 
So  long  ; — I  loved  thee,  maiden,  first  of  all 

Whcii  down  the  hills  (my  mother  fast  beside  thee) 
I  saw  thee  stray  to  pluck  the  summer-fall 

Of  hyacinth  "bells,  and  went  myself  to  guide  thee: 


TAR  A  PHRASE  ON  THEOCRITUS.     153 

And  since  my  eyes  have  seen  thee,  they  can  leave  theo 

No  more,  from  that  clay's  li^ht  1  But  thou  .  .  by  Zeus, 
Thou  wilt  not  care  for  that,  to  let  it  grieve  thee  ! 

I  know  thee,  fair  one,  why  thou  springest  loose 
From  my  arm  round  thee.     Why?  I  tell  thee,  Dear  I 

One  siiaggy  eyebrow  draws  its  smudging  road 
Straight  tiirough  my  ample  front,  from  ear  to  ear — 

One  eye  rolls  underneath,  and  yawning,  broad 
Flat  nostrils  feel  the  bulging  lips  too  near. 
Yet  .  .  ho,  ho  ! — /, — whatever  1  appear — 

Do  feed  a  thousand  oxen  !     When  I  have  done, 
I  milk  the  cows,  and  drink  the  milk  that's  best ! 

I  lack  no  cheese,  while  summer  keeps  the  sun  ; 
And  after,  in  the  cold,  it's  ready  prest ! 

And  then,  I  know  to  sing,  as  there  is  none 
Of  all  the  Cyclops  can,  .  .  a  song  of  thee. 
Sweet  apple  of  my  soul,  on  love's  fair  tree, 
And  of  myself  who  love  thee  .  .  till  the  West 
Forgets  the  light,  and  all  but  I  have  rest. 
I  feed  for  thee,  besides,  eleven  fair  does, 

And  all  in  favvn;  and  four  tame  whelps  of  bears. 
Come  to  me,  Sweet !  thou  shalt  have  all  of  those 

In  change  for  love!     I  will  not  halve  the  shares. 
Leave  the  blue  sea,  with  pure  white  arms  extended 

To  the  dry  shore ;  and,  in  my  cave's  recess, 
Thou  shalt  be  gladder  for  the  noonlight  ended — 

For  here  be  laurels,  spiral  cypresses, 
Dark  ivy,  and  a  vine  whose  leaves  enfold 
Most  luscious  gra[)es;  and  here  is  water  cold. 

The  wooded  ^Etna  pours  down  through  the  trees 
From  the  white  snows — which  gods  were  scarce  toe 
bold 

To  diink  in  turn  with  nectar.     Who  with  these 

Would  choose  the  salt  wave  of  the  lukewarm  seas  ? 
Nay,  look  on  me !     If  I  am  hairy  and  rough, 

I  have  an  oak's  heart  in  me  ;  there's  a  tire 
In  these  grey  ashes  which  burns  hot  enough  ; 

And  when  I  burn  for  thee,  I  grudge  the  pyre 
No  fuel  .  .  not  my  soul,  nor  this  one  eye — 
Most  precious  thing  I  have,  because  thereby 
I  see  thee,  Fairest!     Out,  alas!  I  wish 
My  mother  had  borne  me  finnfed  like  a  fish. 
That  I  might  plunge  down  in  the  ocean  near  thee 

And  kiss  th}'  glittering  hand  between  the  weeds, 
If  still  thy  face  were  turned  ;  and  I  would  bear  thee 

Each  lily  white,  and  poppy  fair  that  bleeds 


154 


PARAPHRASES     ON     APULEIDS. 


Its  red  heart  down  its  loaves  '.—one  gift,  for  hours 

Of  summei-,  .  .  one,  for  winter  ;  since  to  cheer  thee, 
I  could  not  bring  at  once  all  kinds  of  fiowers,^ 
Even  now,  girl,  now,  I  fain  would  learn  to  swim, 

If  stranger  in  a  ship  sailed  nigh,  I  wis — 

That  I  may  know  how  sweet  a  thing  it  is 
To  live  down  with  you,  in  the  Deep  and  Dim  ! 
Come  up,  O  Galatea,  from  the  ocean. 

And  having  come,  forget  again  to  go  ! 
As  I,  who  sing  out  here  my  heart's  emotion. 

Could  sit  forever.     Come  up  from  below  ! 
Come,  keep  my  flocks  beside  me,  milk  my  kine — 

Come,  press  my  cheese,  distrain  my  whey  and  curd  1 
^h,  mother!  she  alone  .  .  that  motlier  of  mine  .  . 

Did  wrong  me  sore  !     I  blame  her ! — Not  a  word 
Of  kindly  intercession  did  she  address 
Thine  ear  with  for  my  sake  ;  and  ne'ertheless 

She  saw  me  wasting,  wasting,  day  by  day  ! 

Both  head  and  feet  were  aching,  I  will  say, 
A.11  sick  for  grief,  as  I  myself  was  sick  ! 

0  Cvclops,  Cyclops,  whither  hast  thou  sent 

Th3'''soul  on  fluttering  wings  ?     If  thou  were  bent 
On  turning  bowls,  or  pulling  green  and  thick 

The  sprouts  to   give  thy  lambkins — thou  wouldst 
make  thee 

A  wiser  Cyclops  than  for  what  we  take  thee. 
Milk  dry  the  present !  Why  pursue  too  quick 
That  future  which  is  fugitive  aright? 

Thy  Galatea  thou  shalt  haply  find — ■ 

Or'else  a  maiden  fairer  and  more  kind  ; 
For  many  girls  do  call  me  through  the  night, 

And,  as  they  call,  do  laugh  out  silverly. 
/,  too,  am  something  in  the  world,  I  see  !" 

While  thus  the  Cyclops  love  and  lambs  did  fold, 
Ease  came  with  song,  he  could  not  buy  with  gold 


PARAPHRASES   ON  APULETUS. 


PSYCHE    GAZING  ON   CUPID. 

(Metamokph.,  Lib.  IV.) 

Then  Psyche,  weak  in  body  and  soul,  put  on 
The  cruelty  of  Fate,  in  place  of  strength  : 


PARAPHRASES     ON     APULEIUS.  155 

She  raisec?  the  lamp  to  see  what  should  be  clone, 

And  seized  the  steel,  and  was  a  man  at  length 
In  eourage,  though  a  woman  !     Yes,  but  when 

The  light  fell  on  the  bed  whereby  she  stood 
To  view  the  "  beast^^  that  lay  there — certes,  then, 

She  saw  the  gentlest,  sweetest  beast  in  wood — 
Even  Cni)id's  self,  the  beauteous  god  !  more  beauteous 

For  that  sweet  sleep  aeross  his  e3'elids  dim  ! 
The  light,  the  lady  carried  as  she  viewed. 

Did  blush  for  pleasure  as  it  liglited  him. 
The  dagger  trembled  from  its  aim  undnteous  ; 

And  .'^he  .  .  oh,  she — amazed  and  soul-distraught. 
And  fainting  in  her  whiteness  liive  a  veil. 

Slid  down  upon  her  knees,  and,  shuddeiing  thought 
To  hide — though  in  her  heart — the  daggei  pale  ! 
She  would  have  done  it,  but  her  hands  did  fail 

To  hold  the  guilty  steel,  they  shivered  so — ■ 
And  feeble,  exhausted,  unawares  she  took. 
To  gazing  on  the  god — till,  look  by  look 

Her  eyes  with  larger  life  did  fill  and  glow. 
She  saw  his  golden  head  alight  with  curls — 

She  might  have  guessed  their  brightness  in  the  dark 

By  that  ambrosial  smell  of  heavenly  nnark ! 
She  saw  the  milky  brow,  more  pure  than  pearls, 

The  puri)le  of  the  cheeks,  divinely  sundered 
By  the  globed  I'inglets,  as  they  glided  free, 
Some  back,  some  forwards — all  so  radiantly. 

That,  as  she  watched  them  there,  she  never  wondered 

To  see  the  lamplight,  where  it  touched  them,  trem 
ble: 
On  the  god's  shoulders,  too,  she  marked  his  wings 

Shine  iaintly  at  the  edges  and  resemble 
A  flower  tliat's  near  to  blow.     The  poet  sings 

And  lover  sighs,  that  Love  is  fugitive  ; 
And  certes,  though  these  pinions  lay  reposing, 

The  feathers  on  them  seemed  to  stir  and  live 
As  if  by  instinct,  closing  and  unclosing. 

^Meantime,  the  god's  fair  body  slumbered  deep, 

All  worthy  of  A^enus,  in  his  shining  sleep  ; 

While  at  the  bed's  foot  lay  the  quiver,  bow. 
And  darts — his  arms  of  godhead.      Psyche  gazc-l 

With  eyes  that  drank  the  wonders  in — said — *'  Lo, 
Be    these   my    husband's    arms?" — and    straightwaj 
raised 

An  arrow  from  the  quiver-case,  and  tried 
Its  point  against  her  finger — trembling  till 


J56  PARAPHRASES     ON     APULEIU8. 

She  piislierl  it  in  too  deeply  (foolish  bride  !) 
And  made  her  blood  some  dewdrops  small  dist'l, 
And  learnt  to  love  Love,  of  her  own  good-will. 


PSYCHE  WAFTED   BY   ZEPHYRUS. 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.  IV.) 

While  Ps.yche  wept  upon  the  I'ock  forsaken, 

Alone,  despairing,  dreading — gradually 
By  Zephj-rus  she  was  enwrapt  and  taken 

Still  trembling — like  the  lilies  planted  high — 
Through  all  her  fair  white  limbs.     Her  vesture  spread. 

Her  very  bosom  eddying  witli  surprise — 
He  drew  her  slowly  from  the  mountain-head, 

And  bore  her  down  the  vallej^s  with  wet  eyes, 
And  laid  her  in  the  lap  of  a  green  dell 

As  soft  with  grass  and  flowers  as  any  nest, 
Witli  trees  beside  her,  and  a  limpid  well : 

Yet  Love  was  not  far  off  from  all  that  Rest. 


PSYCHE  AND  PAK 

(Met.vmorph.,  Lib.  V.) 

The  gentle  River,  in  her  Cupid's  honor. 
Because  he  used  to  warm  the  very  wave. 

Did  ripi-'le  aside,  instead  of  closing  on  her, 
And  cast  up  Psyche,  with  a  refluence  brave. 

Upon  the  flower}'  bank — all  sad  and  sinning. 

Then  Pan,  the  rural  god,  by  chance  was  leaning 
Along  the  brow  of  waters  as  they  wound, 
Kissing  the  ree(l-n3'm|)h  till  she  sank  to  ground, 

And  teaching,  without  knowledge  of  the  meaning, 
To  run  her  voice  in  music  after  his 

Down  many  a  shifting  note  ;  (the  goats  around, 
In  wandering  pasture  and  most  leaping  bliss. 

Drawn  on  to  crop  the  river's  floweiy  hair). 

And  as  the  hoary  god  beheld  her  there, 

The  poor,  worn,  fainting  Psyche! — knowing  all 
The  grief  she  suffered,  he  did  gently  call 

Her  name,  and  softly  comfort  her  despair : — 

"  O  wise,  fair  lady,  I  am  rough  and  rude, 
And  3'et  experienced  through  my  weary  age  I 


PARAPHRASES     ON     APULEIU8.  Jo'J 

And  if  I  read  aright,  as  soothsa3'er  should, 
Thy  faltering  steps  of  heavy  pilgrimage, 

Thy  paleness,  deep  as  snow  we  cannot  see 
The  roses  through — thy  siglis  of  quick  returning, 
Thine  eyes  that  seem,  themselves,  two  souls  in  mourn 
ing — 

Thou  lovest,  girl,  too  well,  and  bitterly  ! 
But  hear  me  :  rush  no  more  to  a  headlong  fall : 

Seek  no  more  deaths  !  leave  wail,  lay  sorrow  down, 
And  pray  the  sovran  god  ;  and  use  withal 

Such  prayer  as  best  may  suit  a  tender  j'outh. 
Well-pleased  to  bend  to  flatteries  from  thy  mouth 

And  feel  tliem  stir  the  myrtle  of  his  crown." 

— So  spake  the  shepherd-god  ;  and  answer  none 
Gave  Psyclie  in  return  :  but  silently 
She  did  him  homage  with  a  bended  knee, 

And  took  the  onward  path. — 


PSYCHE  PROPITIATING  CERES. 
(Metamouph.,  Lib.  "VI. ) 

Then  mother  Ceres  from  afar  beheld  her. 

While  Psyche  touched,  with  reverent  fingers  meek, 
The  temple's  scythes  ;  and  with  a  cry  compelled  her: 

"  0  wretched  Psyche,  Venus  roams  to  seek 
Thy  wandering  footsteps  round  the  weary  earth, 
Anxious  and  maddened,  and  adjures  thee  forth 

To  accept  the  imputed  pang,  and  let  her  wreak 
Full  vengeance  with  full  force  of  deitj'  ! 

Yet  thou,  forsooth,  art  in  m^'  temple  here. 
Touching  my  scythes,  assuming  my  degree, 

And  daring  to  have  thoughts  that  are  not  fear!  " 
— But  Psyche  clung  to  her  feet,  and  as  they  moved 

Rained  tears  along  their  track,  tear  dropped  tear. 
And  drew  the  dust  on  in  her  trailing  locks, 

And  still,    with  passionate  pra3'er,  the  charge  dis. 
proved  : — 
"  Now,  by  thy  right  hand's  gathering  from  the  shock* 
Of  golden  corn — and  by  thv  gladsome  rites 
Of  harvest — and  thy  consecrated  sights 
Shut  safe  and  mute  in  chests — and  by  the  course 
Of  thy  slave-dragons — and  the  driving  force 
Of  plows  along  Sicilian  glebes  profound — 
By  thy  swift  chariot — bj-  th}-  stedfast  ground — 


158  PARAPHRASES     ON      APULEIU8. 

By  all  those  nuptial  torches  that  departed 

With  thy  last  daughter — and  by  tliose  that  shone 

Back  with  her,  when  she  came  again  glad-hearted — 
And  by  all  other  mysteries  which  are  done 

In  silence  at  Eleusis — I  beseech  thee, 

0  Ceres,  take  some  pity,  and  abstain 
From  giving  to  m^'  soul  extremer  pain 

Who  am  the  wretched  Psyche  !     Let  me  teach  thee 

A  little  mercy,  and  have  thy  leave  to  spend 
A  few  davs  onh'  in  th^'  garnered  corn, 

Until  that  wi-athful  goddess,  at  the  eild, 
Shall  feel  her  hate  grow  mild,  the  longer  borne — 
Or  till,  alas  ! — this  faintness  at  my  breast 

Pass  from  me,  and  my  spirit  api)reiiend 
From  life-long  woe  a  breath-time  hour  of  rest !  " 
. — But  Ceres  answei-ed,  "1  am  moved,  indeed, 

By  prayers  so  moist  with  tears,  and  wuuld  defend 
The  poor  beseecher  from  more  utter  nead  : 

But  Avhere  old  oaths,  anterior  ties,  commend, 

1  cannot  fail  to  a  sister,  lie  to  a  friend. 
As  Yen  us  is  to  me.     Depart  with  speed  !  " 


PSYCHE  AND  THE  EAGLE. 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.  VI.) 

But  sovran  Jove's  rapacious  Bird,  the  regal 
High  percher  on  the  lightning,  the  great  eagle 
Drove  down  with  rushing  wings  ;  and — thinking 

how 
B}'  Cupid's  lielp,  he  bore  from  Ida's  brow 
A  cup-boy  for  his  master — he  inclined 
To  yield,  in  just  return,  an  influence  kind  ; 
The  god  being  honored  in  his  lady's  woo. 
And  thus  the  Bird  wheeled  downward  from  the  trach 
Gods  follow  gods  in,  to  tlie  level  low 
Of  that  poor  face  of  Psyche  left  in  wrack. 
— "Now  fie,  thou  simple  girl !"  the  Bird  began  ; 
"  For  if  thou  think  to  steal  and  carry  back 
A  drop  of  holiest  stream  that  ever  ran, 
No  simpler  thought,  methinks,  were  found  in  man. 
^^'hat !  know'st.  tliou  not  these  Stygian  waters  be 
Most  holy,  even  to  Jove  ?  that  as,  on  earth. 
Men  swear  by  gods,  and  by  the  thunder's  worth. 
Even  so  the  heavenly  gods  do  utter  forth 


PARAPHRASES     ON      APULEIUS.  101. 

Their  oaths  by  Styx's  flowing  majestj^  ? 

And  yet,  one  little  urnfiil,  I  agree 

To  grant  thy  need  !"     Whereat,  all  hastily, 

He  takes  it,  fills  it  from  the  willing  wave, 

And  bears  it  in  his  l)eak,  incarnadined 

By  the  last  Titan-prey  he  screamed  to  have ; 

And,  striking  caltnly  out,  against  the  wind. 

Vast  wings  on  each  side — there,  where  Psyche  stands 

He  drops  the  urn  down  in  her  lifted  hands. 


PSYCHE  AND  CERBERUS. 

(Metamorpii.,  Lib.  VI.) 

A  MIGHTY  Dog  with  three  colossal  necks, 

And  heads  in  grand  proportion  ;  vast  as  fear, 
With  jaws  that  bark  the  thunder  out  that  breaks 

In  most  innocuous  dread  for  ghosts  anear. 
Who  are  safe  in  death  from  sorrow :  he  reclines 
Across  the  tlireshold  of  queen  Proserpine's 
Dark-sweeping  halls,  and,  there,  for  Pluto's  spouse. 
Doth  guard  the  entrance  of  the  empt}^  house. 
AVheu  Psyche  threw  the  cake  to  him,  once  amain 
He  howled  up  wildl}-  from  his  hunger-pain. 
And  was  still,  after. — 


PSYCHE  AND  PROSERPINE. 

(Mktamorph.,  Lib.  VL) 

Then  Psyche  entered  in  to  Proserpine 

In  the  dark  house,  and  straightwa}''  did  decline 

With  meek  denial  the  luxurious  seat. 

The  liberal  board  for  welcome  strangers  spread, 
But  sat  down  lowly  at  the  dark  queen's  feet, 

And  told  her  tale,  and  break  her  oaten  bread. 
And  when  she  had  given  the  pyx  in  humble  duty, 

And  told  how  Venus  did  entreat  the  queen 
To  fill  it  up  with  only  one  day's  beauty 

She  used  in  Hades,  star-bright  and  serene, 
To  beautify  the  Cyprian,  who  had  been 

All  spoilt  with  grief  in  nursing  her  sick  boy — 
Then  Proserpine,  in  malice  and  in  joy, 

Smiled  in  the  shade,  and  took  the  pyx,  and  put 

A  secret  in  it ;  and  so,  filled  and  shut. 


IGO  PARAPHRASES     ON     APULEIU8. 

Gave  it  again  to  Psyche.     Could  she  tell 
It  held  no  beauty,  but  a  dream  of  hell  ? 


PSYCHE   AND  YENUS. 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.  VI.) 

And  Psyche  brought  to  Yenus  what  was  sent 
By  Pluto's  spouse ;  the  paler,  that  she  went 
So  low  to  seek  it,  down  the  dark  descent. 


MERCURY  CARRIES  PSYCHE  TO  OLYMPUS 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.  VL) 

Then  Jove  commanded  the  god  Mercury 
To  float  up  Psyche  from  the  earth.     And  she 
Sprang  at  the  first  word,  as  the  fountain  springs. 
And  shot  up  bright  and  rustling  through  his  wings. 


MARRIAGE  OF  PSYCHE  AND  CUPID. 

(Matamouph.,  Lib.  VL) 

And    Jove's    right-hand    approached    tlie    ambrosial 
bovvl 

To  Psyche's  lips,  that  scarce  dared  yet  to  smile — 
"Drink,  0  my  daughter,  and  acquaint  thy  soul 

With  deathless  uses,  and  be  glad  the  while ! 
No  more  shall  Cupid  leave  thy  lovely  side  ; 

Thy  marriage-joy  begins  for  never-ending." 
While  yet  he  spake— the  nuptial  feast  supplied — 

The  bridegroom  on  the  festive  couch  was  bending 
O'er  Psyche  in  his  bosom — Jove,  the  same. 

On  Juno,  and  the  other  deities, 
Alike  ranged  round.     The  rural  cup-bo}'  came 

And  poured  Jove's  nectar  out  with  shining  e^^es, 
While  Bacchus,  for  the  others,  did  as  much. 

And  Vulcan  spread  the  meal ;  and  all  the  Hours, 

Made  all  things  purple  with  a  sprinkle  of  flowers, 
Or  roses  chiefl3^  not  to  say  the  touch 

Of  their  sweet  fingers  ;  and  the  Graces  glided 
Their  balm  around,  and  the  Muses,  through  the  air. 


PARAPHRASES      ON      NONNUS.  Irj] 

Struck  out  clear  voices,  whi«h  were  still  divided 
By  that  divinest  song  Apollo  there 

Intoned  to  his  lute  ;  while  Aphrodite  fair 
Did  float  her  beauty  along  the  tune,  and  play 

The  notes  right  with  her  feet.     And  thus,  the  day 
Through  ever}^  perfect  mood  of  joy  was  carried, 

The  Muses  sang  tlieir  chorus;  Satyrus 

Did  blow  his  pipes  ;  Fan   touched  his  reed  ; — and 
thus 
At  last  were  Cupid  and  his  Psyche  married. 


PARAPHRASES  ON  NONNUS. 


HOW  BACCHUS  FINDS  ARIADNE  SLEEPING. 

(DioxYsiACA,  Lib.  XLVII.) 

When  Bacchus  first  beheld  the  desolate 

And  sleeping  Ariadne,  wonder  straight 

Was  mixed  with  love  in  his  great  golden  eyes  ; 

He  turned  to  his  Bacchantes  in  surprise. 

And    said   with    guarded    voice — "Hush!    strike    no 

more 
"Your  brazen  cymbals  ;  keep  those  voices  still 
Of  voice  and  pipe  ;  and  since  3^e  stand  before 
Queen  Cypris,  let  her  slumber  as  she  will ! 
And  yet  tlie  cestus  is  not  here  in  proof. 
A  Grace,  perhaps,  whom  sleep  has  stolen  aloof: 
In  which  case,  as  the  morning  shines  in  view, 
Wake  tliis  Aglaia  ! — yet  in  Naxos,  who 
Would  veil  a  Grace  so  ?     Hush  !  And  if  that  she 
Were  Hebe,  whicli  of  all  the  gods  can  be 
The  pourer-out  of  wine?  or  if  we  think 
She's  lilvc  the  shining  moon  by  ocean's  brink. 
The  guide  of  herds — why,  could  she  sleep  witliout 
Endymion's  breath  on  her  cheek?  or  if  I  doubt 
Of  silver-footed  Thetis,  used  to  tread 
These  shores — even  she  (in  reverence  be  it  said) 
Has  uo  such  rosy  beauty  to  dress  deep 
With  the  blue  waves.     The  Loxian  goddess  might 
Repose  so  from  her  hunting-toil  aright 
Beside  the  sea,  since  toil  gives  birtli  to  sleep, 
But  who  would  find  her  with  her  tunic  loose, 
Thus?  Stand  oflT,  Thracian !  stand  oil' I  Do  not  leap, 


]'J2  PARAPHRASES     ON      N0NNU8. 

Not  this  wa3' !  Leave  that  piping  since  I  choose, 

0  dearest  Pan,  and  let  Athene  rest! 

And  yet  if  she  be  Pallas  .  .  trul3'  guessed  .  . 

Her  lance  is — where  ?  her  helm  and  jegis — where  ?" 

■ — As  Bacchus  closed,  tlie  miserable  Fair 

Awoke  at  last,  sprang  upward  from  the  sands, 

And  gazing  wild  on  that  wald  throng  that  stands 

Around,  around  her,  and  no  Theseus  there! — 

Her  voice  went  moaning  over  shore  and  sea, 

Beside  the  halcyon's  cry  ;  she  called  her  love  ; 

She  named  her  hero,  and  raged  maddeningl}^ 

Against  the  brine  of  waters;  and  above. 

Sought  the  ship's  track,    and  cursed   the  hours  she 

slept ; 
And  still  the  chiefest  execration  swept 
Against  Queen  Paphia,  mother  of  the  ocean  ; 
And  cursed  and  prayed  by  times  in  her  emotion  « 

The  winds  all  round.  .... 

Her  grief  did  make  her  glorious  ;  her  despair 
Adorned  her  with  its  weight.     Poor  wailing  child  1 
She  looked  like  Yenus  when  the  goddess  smiled 
At  liberty  of  godship,  debonair  ; 
Poor  Ariadne  !  and  her  eyelids  fair 
Hid  looks  beneath  them  lent  her  by  Persuasion 
And  every  Grace,  with  tears  of  Love's  own  passion. 
She  wept  long;  then   she  spake: — "Sweet   sleep   did 

come 
While  sweetest  Theseus  went.     0,  glad  and  dumb, 

1  wish  he  had  left  me  still !  for  in  my  sleep 
I  saw  his  Athens,  and  did  gladly  keep 

M}'  new  bride-state  within  my  Theseus'  hall  ; 

And  heard  the  pomp  of  Hj'men,  and  the  call 

Of  "Ariadne,  Ariadne,"  sung 

In  choral  joy  ;  and  there,  with  joy  I  hung 

Spring-blossoms  round  love's  altar  ! — a}',  and  wore 

A  wreath  m3'self ;  and  felt  him  evermore, 

Oh,  evermore  beside  me,  with  his  mighty 

Grave  head  bowed  down  in  prayer  to  Aphrodite  ! 

Wh}^  what  a  sweet,  sweet  dream !     He  went  with  it, 

And  left  me  here  unwedded  where  I  sit ! 

Persuasion  help  me  !     The  dai'k  night  did  make  me 

A  brideship,  the  fair  morning  takes  away; 
My  Love  had  left  me  when  the  Hour  did  wake  me  ; 

And  while  I  dreamed  of  marriage,  as  I  say, 
And  blest  it  well,  my  blessed  Theseus  left  me: 


PARAPHRASES     ON     N0NNU8.  lyr, 

And  thus  the  sleep,  I  loved  so,  has  bereft  me. 
Speak  to  me,  rocks,  and  tell  nw  grief  to-da^', 
Who  stole  my  love  of  Athens?"  .... 


HOW  BACCHUS  COMFORTS  ARIADNE. 

(DioxYSiACA,  Lib.  XLVII.) 

Then  Bacchus'  subtle  speech  her  sorrow  crossed  :— 

"  0  maiden,  dost  thou  mourn  for  haviug  lost 

The  false  Athenian  heart?  and  dost  thou  still 

Take  thought  of  Theseus,  when  thou  niay'st  at  will 

Have  Bacchus  for  a  husband  ?     Bacchus  bright ! 

A  god  in  i)lace  of  mortal !     Yes,  and  though 

The  mortal  youth  be  charming  in  thy  sight, 

That  man  of  Athens  cannot  strive  below, 

In  beauty  and  valor,  with  my  deity  ! 

Thou'lt  tell  me  of  the  lal)vrinthinc  dweller. 

The  fierce  man-bull,  he  slew  :  I  pray  thee,  be, 

Fair  Ariadne,  the  true  deed's  true  teller, 

And  mention  thy  clue's  help!  because,  forsooth, 

Thine  armed  Athenian  hero  had  not  found 

A  power  to  fight  on  that  prodigious  ground, 

Qidess  a  lady  in  her  rosy  youth 

Had  lingered  near  him  :  not  to  speak  the  truth 

Too  definitely  out  till  names  be  know^n — 

Like  Pai)hia's — Love's — and  Ariadne's  own. 

Thou  wilt  not  say  that  Athens  can  compare 

With  JEther,  nor  that  Minos  rules  like  Zeus, 

Nor  yet  that  Gnossus  has  such  golden  air 

As  high  Olympus.     Ha!  for  noble  use 

We  came  to  Naxos !     Love  has  well  intended 

To  change  thy  bridegroom  !     Happy  thou,  defended 

From  entering  in  thy  Theseus'  earthly  hall, 

That  thou  mayst  hear  the  laughters  rise  and  fall 

Instead,  wdiere  Bacchus  rules!  Or  wilt  thou  choose 

A  still-surpassing  glory  ? — take  it  all — 

A  heavenly  house,  Kronion's  self  for  kin — 

A  place  where  Cassiopea  sits  within 

Inferior  light,  for  all  her  daughter's  sake. 

Since  Perseus,  even  amid  the  stars,  must  take 

Andromeda  in  chains  aetherial ! 

But  /  will  wreathe  thee,  sweet,  as  astral  crown, 

And  as  ray  queen  and  spouse  thou  shalt  be  known— 


104  PARAPHRASE     ON     EURIPIDES. 

Mine,  the  crown-lovei-'s  !"     Thus  at  length  he  proved 

His  comfort  on  her  ;  and  the  maid  was  mored  -, 

And  casting  Theseus'  memory  down  tlie  brine, 

Slie  straight  received  the  troth  of  her  divine 

Fair  Bacchus  ;  Love  stood  by  to  close  the  rite : 

The  marriage-chorus  struck  up  clear  and  light, 

Flowers  sprouted  fast  about  the  chambei'-green, 

And  with  spring-garlands  on  their  heads,  1  ween, 

The  Orchomenian  dancers  came  along, 

And  danced  their  rounds  in  Nrlxos  to  the  song. 

A  Hamadryad  sang  a  nuptial  dit 

Right  shrilly  :    and  a  Naiad  sat  beside 

A  fountain,  with  her  bare  foot  shelving  it. 

And  hymned  of  Ariadne,  beauteous  bride, 

Whom  thus  the  god  of  grapes  had  deified. 

Ortygia  sang  out,  louder  than  her  wont, 

An  ode  which  Phoebus  gave  her  to  be  tried. 

And  leapt  in  chorus,  with  her  stedfast  front. 

While  prophet  Love,  the  stars  have  called  a  brother, 

Burnt  in  his  crown,  and  twined  in  one  another, 

His  love-flower  with  the  purple  roses,  given 

In  type  of  tliat  new  crown  assigned  in  heaven. 


PARAPHRASE  ON  HESIOD. 
BACCHUS  AND  ARIADNE. 

(TiiEOG.  947.) 

The  golden-haired  Bacchus  did  espouse 
That  fairest  Ariadne,  Minos'  daughter, 

And  made  her  wifehood  blossom  in  the  house ; 
Where  such  protective  gifts  Kronion  brought  her. 

Nor  Death  nor  Age  could  find  her  when  they  sought 
her. 


PARAPHRASE  ON  EURIPIDES. 


ANTISTROPHE. 

(Troades,  853.) 

Love,  Love  who  once  didst  pass  the  Dardan  portals, 

Because  of  Heavenlj'  passion  ! 
Who  once  didst  lift  up  Troy  in  exultation, 


r  A  R  A  r  II  11  A  B  E  S      ON      HOMER.  [  ^k 

To  mingle  in  thy  bond  the  high  Immortals  ! — 

Love,  tnrned  from  his  own  name 
To  Zeus's  shame, 

Can  help  no  more  all. 
And  Eos'  self,  the  fair,  white-steeded  Morning — ■ 
Her  light  vvhieh  blesses  other  lands,  returning, 

Has  changed  to  a  gloom}-  pall ! 
She  looked  across  the  land  with  eyes  of  amber — 

She  saw  the  city's  fall — ' 

She,  who,  in   pure  embraces. 
Had  held  there,  in  the  hymeneal  chamber, 
Her  children's  father,  bright  Tithonus  old, 
Whom  the  foui-  steeds  with  starry  brows  and  paces 
Bore  on,  snatched  upward,  on  the  car  of  gold, 
And  with  him,  all  the  land's  full  hope  of  joy 
The  love-charms  of  the  gods  are  vain  for  Troy. 

Note. — Rendered  after  Mr.  Burges's  reading,  in  some  respecis— 
not  quite  all. 


PARAPHRASES   ON   HOxMER. 


HECTOR  AND   ANDROMACHE. 

(Iliad,  Lib.  YI.) 

She  rushed  to  meet  him  :  the  nurse  followino- 
Bore  on  her  bosom  the  unsaddened  child, 
A  simple  babe,  prince  Hector's  well-loved  son, 
Like  a  star  sliining  when  the  world  is  dark. 
Scamandrius,  Hector  called  him  ;  but  the  rest 
Named  him  Astyanax,  the  city's  prince. 
Because  that  Hector  only,  had  saved  Troy. 
He,  when  he  saw  his  son,  smiled  silently  ; 
While,  dropping  tears,  Andromache  pressed  on. 
And  clung  to  his  hand,  and   spake,  and  named   hi* 
name. 

"  Hector,  my  best  one — thine  own  nobleness 
Must  needs  undo  thee.     Pity  hast  thou  none 
For  this  young  child,  and  tliis  most  sad  myself, 
Who  soon  shall  be  thy  widow — since  that  soon 
The  Greeks  will  slay  thee  in  the  general  rush — 
And  then,  for  me,  what  refuge,  'reft  of  thee, 
But  to  go  graveward  ?     Then,  no  comfort  more 
Shall  touch  me,  as  in  the  old  sad  times  thou  know'st— 


2^(3  PARAPHRASES     ON      HOMER. 

Grief  only — grief!     I  have  no  father  now, 

No  mother  nuld !     Achilles  the  divine, 

He  slew  my  father,  sacked  his  lofty  Thebes, 

Cilicia's  populous  city,  and  slew  its  king, 

Eetion — father! — did  not  spoil  the  corsQ, 

Because  the  Greek  revered  him  in  his  soul, 

But  burnt  the  body  with  its  daedal  arms, 

And  poured  the  dust  out  gently.     Round  that  tomb 

The  Oreads,  daughters  of  the  goat-nursed  Zeus, 

Tripped  in  a  ring,  and  planted  tlieir  green  elms. 

There  were  seven  brothers  with  me  in  the  house, 

Who  all  went  down  to  Hades  in  one  day — 

For  he  slew  all,  Achilles  the  divine, 

Famed  for  his  swift  feet — slain  among  their  herds 

Of  cloven  footed  bulls  and  flockinu'  sheep! 

My  mother  too,  who  queened  it  o'er  the  woods 

Of  Hippoplacia,  he,  with  other  spoil, 

Seized — and,  for  golden  ransom,  freed  too  late — 

Since,  as  she  went  home,  arrowy  Artemis 

Met  her  and  slew  her  at  my  father's  door. 

But — oh,  my  Hector — thou  art  still  to  me 

Father  and  mother  ! — yes,  and  brother  dear, 

0  thou,  wlio  art  my  sweetest  spouse  beside  ! 
Come  now,  and  take  me  into  pity  !     Stay 

I'  the  town  here  with  us  !     Do  not  miike  thy  child 

An  orphan,  nor  a  widow,  thy  poor  wife  ! 

Call  up  the  people  to  the  fig-tree,  where 

The  city  is  most  accessible,  the  wall 

Most  easy  of  assault ! — for  thrice  thereb3' 

The  boldest  Greeks  have  mounted  to  the  breach — 

Both  Ajaxes,  the  famed  Idomeneus 

Two  sons  of  Atreus,  and  the  noble  one 

Of  Tydeus — v/hether  taught  by  some  wise  seer. 

Or  by  their  own  souls  prompted  and  inspired." 

Great  Hector  answered  : — "  Lady,  for  these  things 
It  is  my  part  to  care.     And  /  fear  most 
M3'  Trojans,  and  their  daughters,  and  their  wives. 
Who  through  their  long  veils  would  glance  scorn  at 

me. 
If,  coward-like,  I  shunned  the  open  war. 
Nor  doth  my  own  soul  prompt  me  to  that  end  1 

1  learnt  to  be  a  brave  man  constantly, 

And  to  fight  foremost  where  my  Trojans  fight, 
And  vindicate  my  father's  glory  and  mine — 
Because  I  know,  hy  instinct  and  my  soul, 
The  da}^  comes  that  our  sacred  Troy  must  fall, 
5J 


PARAPHRASES     ON      HOMER.  iq- 

\iitl  Priam  and  bis  people.     Knowing  which, 

r  have  no  such  grief  for  all  nij  Trojans'  sake, 

For  ITecuba's,  for  Priam's,  our  old  king, 

Not  for  m^'  brothers',  who  so  many  and  brave 

Shall  bite  the  dust  before  our  enemies — 

As,  sweet,  for  thee  ! — to  tliink  some  mailed  Greek 

Shall  lead  thee  weeping  and  deprive  th^'  life 

Of  the  free  sun-siglit — tliat,  when  gone  away 

To  Argos,  thou  shalt  tlirow  the  distalf  there, 

Not  for  thy  uses — or  shalt  carry  instead 

Upon  thy  loatliing  brow,  as  heavy  as  doom, 

The  water  of  Greek  wells — Messeis'  own, 

Or  Ilyperea's  ! — that  some  stander-by. 

Marking  thj^  tears  fall,  shall  say,  '  This  is  she, 

The  wife  of  that  same  Hector  who  fought  best 

Of  all  the  Trojans,  when  all  fought  for  Troy — ' 

Ay  ! — and,  so  speaking,  slmll  renew  thy  pang 

That,  'reft  of  him  so  named,  thou  shouldst  survive 

To  a  slave's  life!     But  earth  shall  hide  my  corse 

Ere  that  shriek  sound,  wherewith  thou    art  dragged 

from  Tro}'." 
Thus  Hector  spake,  and  stretched  his  arms  to  his  child. 
Against  the  nurse's  breast,  with  childly  cvy, 
The  bo}^  clung  back,  and  shunned  his  father's  face, 
And  feared  the  glittering  brass  and  waving  hair 
Of  the  high  helmet,  nodding  horror  down. 
The  father  smiled,  the  mother  could  not  choose 
But  smile  too.     Then  he  lifted  from  his  brow 
The  helm,  and  set  it  on  the  ground  to  shine  : 
Then,  kissed    his  devir    child — raised  him  with    bott; 

arms, 
And  thus  invoked  Zeus  and  the  general  gods  : — 

"  Zeus,  and  all  godships  !  grant  this  boy  of  mine 
To  be  the  Trojans'  help,  as  I  myself — 
To  live  a  brave  life  and  rule  well  in  Troy  ! 
Till  men  shall  say,  '  The  son  exceeds  the  sire 
By  a  far  glory.'     Let  him  bring  home  spoil 
Heroic,  and  make  glad  his  mother's  heart." 

With  which  praj^er,  to  his  wife's  extended  arms 
He  gave  the  child  ;  and  she  received  him  straight 
To  iier  bosom's  fragrance — smiling  up  her  tears. 
Hector  gazed  on  her  till  his  soul  was  m.oved  ; 
Then  softly  touched  her  with  his  hand  and  spake 
"  My  best  one — 'ware  of  passion  and  excess 
In  anv  fear      There's  no  man  in  the  world 


jns  PARAPHRASES     ON      HOMER. 

Can  send  nie  to  the  grave  upc^vt  from  fate — • 

And  no  man  .  .  Sweet,  I  tell  thee  .  .  can  ti}-  fate 

No  good  nor  bad  man.     Doom  is  self  fulfilled 
But  now,  go  home,  and  ply  thy  woman's  task 
Of  wheel  and  distaff!  bid  thy  maidens  haste 
Their  occupation.     War's  a  care  for  men — 
For  all  men  born  in  Troy,  and  chief  for  me." 
Thus  spake  the  noble  Hector,  and  resumed 
His  crested  helmet  while  his  spouse  went  home  ; 
But  as  she  went,  still  looked  back  lovingly, 
Dropping  the  tears  from  her  reverted  face. 


THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  PANDARUS. 

(Odyss.    Lib.  XX.) 
And  so  these  daughters  fair  of  Pandarus, 
The  whirlwinds  took.     The  gods  had  slain  their  kin  -. 
They  were  left  orphans  in  their  father's  house. 
And  Aphrodite  came  to  comfort  them 
With  incense,  luscious  honey,  and  fragrant  wine  ; 
And  Here  gave  them  beauty  of  face  and  soul 
Beyond  all  women  ;  purest  Artemis 
Endowed  them  with  her  stature  and  white  grace  ; 
And  Pallas  taught  theii  hands  to  flash  along 
Her  famous  looms.     Then,  bright  with  deity, 
Tow^ard  far  Olym])us,  Aphrodite  went 
To  ask  of  Zeus  (who  has  his  thunder-joys 
And  his  full  knowledge  of  man's  mingled  fate) 
How  best  to  crown  those  other  gifts  with  love 
And  worthy  marriage :  but,  what  time  she  went. 
The  ravishing  Harpies  snatched  the  maids  away, 
And  gave  them  up,  for  all  their  loving  eyes, 
To  serve  the  Furies  who  hate  constantl3\ 


ANOTHER  VERSION. 

So  the  storms  bore  the  daughters  of  Pandarus  out 
into  thrall — 

The  gods  slew  their  parents  ;  the  orphans  were  left  in 
the  hall. 

And  there  came,  to  feed  their  young  lives.  Aphrodite 
divine, 

With  the  incense,  the  sw^eet-tasting  honej^,  the  sweet- 
smelling  wine  ; 


PARAPHRASE     ON     ANACREON.  jgg 

Here  bn)ught  them  her  wit  above  woman's,  and  beauty 

of  lace  ; 
And  pure   Artemis  gave  them  her  stature,  that  form 

might  have  grace : 
And   Atliene  instructed  their  hands  in  her  works  of 

renown  ; 
Then,  afar  to  Olympus,  divine  Aphrodite  moved  ou : 
To    complete  otiier  gifts,  by  uniting  each    girl  to  a 

mate, 
She    sought  Zeus,  who  has  joy  in  the    thunder  and 

knowledge  of  fate, 
Whether  mortals   have  good  chance  or  ill !     But  the 

Harpies  alate 
In  the   storm  came,  and  swept  off  the  maidens,  and 

gave  them  to  wait. 
With  that  love  in  their  eyes,  on  the   Furies  who  con 

stantly  hate. 


PARAPHRASE  ON  ANACREON. 


ODE  TO  THE  SWALLOW. 

Thou  indeed,  little  Swallow, 
A  sweet  yearly  comer. 
Art  building  a  hollow 
New  nest  every  summer. 
And  straight  dost  depart 
Where  no  gazing  can  follow, 
Past  Memphis,  down  Nile  1 
Ay  1  but  love  all  the  while 
Builds  his  nest  in  my  heart. 
Through  the  cold  winter-weeks : 
And  as  one  Love  takes  flight, 
Comes  another,  0  Swallow, 
In  an  egg  warm  and  white. 
And  another  is  callow. 
And  the  large  gaping  beaks 
Chirp  all  day  and  all  night: 
And  the  Loves  who  are  older 
Help  the  young  and  the  poor  Loves, 
And  the  young  loves  grown  bolder 
Increase  by  the  score  Loves — 
Why,  what  can  be  done? 
If  a  noise  comes  from  one, 
Can  I  bear  all  this  rout  of  a  hundred  and  more  Loves '. 


170  PARATHRASES     ON     HEINE. 


PARAPHRASES  ON  HEINE. 


[the  last  translation.] 
Rome,  1860. 

I. 

Out  of  my  own  great  woe 

I  make  my  little  songs, 

Which  rustle  their  feathers  in  throngs 

And  beat  on  her  heart  even  so. 

They  found  the  way,  for  their  part, 
Yet  come  again,  and  complain, 
Complain,  and  are  not  fain 
To  say  what  they  saw  in  her  heart. 

II. 

Art  tliou  indeed  so  adverse  ? 
Art  thou  so  changed  indeed  ? 
Against  the  woman  who  wrongs  me 
I  cry  to  the  world  in  my  need. 

O  recreant  lips  unthankful. 

How  could  3'e  speak  evil,  say. 

Of  the  man  who  so  well  has  kissed  you 

On  many  a  fortunate  day  ? 

III. 

My  child,  we  were  two  children, 
Small,  merry  M'  childhood's  law  ; 
We  used  to  crawl  to  the  hen-house, 
And  hide  ourselves  in  the  straw. 

We  crowed  like  cocks,  and  whenever 
The  passers  near  us  drew — 
Cock-a-doodle !  they  thought 
'Twas  a  real  cock  that  crew. 

The  boxes  about  our  courtj'ard 
We  carpeted  to  our  mind, 
.\nd  lived  there  both  together — 
Kept  house  in  a  noble  kind. 
61* 


PARAPHRASES     ON      HEINE.  17J 

The  neighbor's  old  cat  often 
Came  to  pa}'  us  a  visit ; 
We  made  her  a  bow  and  curtsey, 
Each  Avith  a  conrpUraent  in  it. 

After  hcj-  health  we  asked, 

Our  care  and  regard  to  evince — 

(We  have  made  the  ver}^  same  speeches 

To  many  an  old  cat  since.) 

We  also  sat  and  wisely 
Discoursed,  as  old  folks  do, 
Complaining  how  all  went  better 
In  those  good  times  we  knew — 

How  love  and  truth  and  believing 
Had  left  the  world  to  itself, 
And  how  so  dear  was  the  coffee, 
And  how  so  rare  was  the  pelf 

The  children's  games  are  0\Qi, 

The  rest  is  over  with  yont  '.^-~ 

The  world,  the  good  games,  the  gooa  times. 

The  belief,  and  the  love,  and  the  truth. 


Thou  lovest  me  not,  thou  lovest  me  not ! 

'Tis  scarcely  worth  a  sigh: 
Let  me  look  in  thy  face,  and  no  king  in  his  jDlace 

Is  a  gladder  man  than  I. 

Thou  hatest  me  well,  thou  hatest  me  well — 

Thy  little  red  mouth  has  told  : 
Let  it  reach  me  a  kiss,  and,  however  it  is, 

My  child,  I  am  well  consoled. 


My  own  sweet  Love,  if  thou  in  the  grave, 

The  darksome  grave,  wilt  be. 
Then  will  I  go  down  by  the  side,  and  crave 

Love-room  for  thee  and  me. 

I  kiss  and  caress  and  press  thee  wild, 
Thou  still,  thou  cold,  thou  white  ! 

I  wail,  I  tremble,  and  weeping  mild, 
Turn  to  a  corpse  at  the  right. 


PARAPHRASES     ON      HEINE 

The  Dead  stand  up,  the  midnight  calls, 

They  dance  in  airy  swarms — 
We  two  keep  still  where  the  grave-shade  falls, 

And  I  lie  on  in  thine  arins. 

The  Dead  stand  up,  the  Judgment-day 

Bids  such  to  weal  or  woe — 
But  nought  shall  trouble  us  where  we  stay 

Embraced  and  embracing  below. 

YI. 

The  years  they  come  and  go, 
The  races  drop  in  the  grave, 
Yet  never  the  love  doth  so, 
Which  here  in  my  heart  I  have. 

Could  I  see  thee  but  once,  one  day, 
And  sirik  down  so  on  m}^  knee, 
A-ud  die  in  thy  sight  while  I  saj 
*  Lady.  ^  ->ve  but  thee  I" 


AURORA    LEIGH 


m^biration 

TO 

JOHN    KENYON,    Esq. 


The  words  "cousin"  and  "  friend"  are  constantly  recurring  in 
this  poem,  the  last  pages  of  which  have  been  finished  under  the 
hospitality  of  your  roof,  my  own  dearest  cousin  and  friend ; — 
cousin  and  frend,  =r  e  seise  of  less  equality  and  frreater  disin- 
terestedness than  "Rciant  y's." 

Ending,  taerefore,  and  preparing  once  more  lo  quit  England,  I 
venture  to  leave  in  your  hands  this  book,  the  most  mature  of  my 
works,  and  the  one  into  which  my  highest  convictions  upon  Life 
and  Art  have  entered;  that  as,  through  my  vaiioas  efforts  in 
literature  and  steps  in  life,  you  have  believed  in  me,  borne  with 
me,  and  been  generous  to  me,  far  beyond  the  common  uses  of 
mere  relationship  or  sympathy  of  mind,  so  you  may  kindly  ac- 
cept, in  sight  of  the  public,  this  poor  sign  of  esteem,  gratitude, 
and  affection,  from 

your  unforgetting 

E.  B.  B. 

39  Devonshire  Placb, 
October  17,  186& 


AURORA    LEIGH. 


FIRST   BOOK. 

Of  writing  many  books  tliere  is  no  end  ; 

And  I  who  have  Avritten  much  in  prose  and  verse 

For  otliers'  uses,  will  write  now  for  mine — 

Will  write  my  story  for  my  better  self, 

As  when  you  paint  your  portrait  for  a  friend, 

"Who  keeps  it  in  a  drawer  and  looks  at  it 

Lonoj  after  he  has  ceased  to  love  .you,  just 

To  hold  together  what  he  was  and  is. 

T,  writing  thus,  am  still  what  men  call  young  ; 

I  have  not  so  far  left  the  coasts  of  life 

To  travel  inland,  that  I  caainot  hear 

That  murmur  of  the  outer  Infinite 

Which  unweaned  babies  smile  at  in  their  sleep 

When  wondered  at  for  smiling;  not  so  far, 

]>ut  still  I  catch  ni}'  mother  at  her  post 

Beside  the  nursery  door,  with  finger  up, 

"  Hush,  hush — here's  too  much  noise  !"  while  her  sweet 

eyes 
Leap  forward,  taking  part  against  her  word 
In  tlie  child's  riot.     Still  I  sit  and  feel 
My  father's  slow  hand,  when  she  had  left  us  both, 
Stroke  out  my  childish  curls  across  his  knee; 
And  hear  Assunta's  daily  jest  (she  knew 
He  liked  it  better  than  a  better  jest) 
Inipiire  how  many  golden  scudi  went 
To  make  such  ringlets.     0  m^-  father's  hand, 
Stroke  the  poor  hair  down,  stroke  it  heavily — 
I)raw,  press  the  child's  head  closer  to  thy  knee! 
I'm  still  too  young,  too  young,  to  sit  alone. 

1  write.     My  mother  was  a  Florentine, 
Whose  rare  blue  eyes  were  shut  from  seeing  me 
When  scarcely  I  was  four  3'ears  old  ;  my  life, 
A  [)oor  spark  snatched  up  from  a  failing  lamp 
Which  went  out  therefore.     She  was  weak  and  frail ; 

611 


176  AURORA     LEIGH. 

She  could  not  boar  the  J03'  of  giving  life — 

The  mother's  rapture  slew  her.     If  her  kiss 

Had  left  a  longer  weight  upon  mj'  lips, 

It  might  have  steadied  the  uneasy  bieath, 

And  reconciled  and  fraternized  my  soul 

With  the  new  order.     As  it  was,  indeed, 

1  felt  a  mother- want  about  the  world, 

And  still  went  seeking,  like  a  bleating  lamb 

Left  out  at  night,  in  shutting  up  the  fold — 

As  restless  as  a  nest-deserted  bird 

Grown  chill  through  something  being  awa\-,  thougc 

what 
It  knows  not.     I,  Aurora  Leigh,  was  born 
To  make  m_y  father  sadder,  and  m_yself 
Not  overjo3'ous,  trul3\     Women  know 
>  The  wa\^  to  rear  up  children,  (to  be  just,) 
'  The}'  know  a  simple,  merry,  tender  knack 

Of  t^'ing  sashes,  fitting  baby-shoes, 
1  And  stringing  pretty  words  that  make  no  sense, 
'I  And  kissing  full  sense  into  empt}'  words  ; 
Wliich  things  are  corals  to  cut  life  upon. 
Although  such  trifles:  children  learn  by  such, 
Love's  holy  earnest  in  a  pretty  play. 
And  get  not  over-early  solemnized — 
But  seeing,  as  in  a  rose-bush,  Love's  Divine, 
Which  burns  and  hurts  not — not  a  single  bloom — 
Become  aware  and  unafraid  of  Love. 
Such  good  do  mofehers.     Fathers  love  as  well 
— .Mine  did,  I  know — but  still  Avith  heavier  brains, 
And  wills  more  consciously  responsible, 
And  not  as  wisely,  since  less  foolishl}'  ; 
So  mothers  have  God's  license  to  be  missed. 

My  father  was  an  austere  Englishman, 

Who,  after  a  dr}'  lifetime  spent  at  home 

In  college-learning,  law,  and  parish  talk. 

Was  flooded  with  a  passion  unaware. 

His  whole  provisioned  and  complacent  past 

Drowned  out  from  him  that  moment.     As  he  stood 

In  Florence,  where  he  had  come  to  spend  a  month 

And  note  the  secret  of  Da  Vinci's  drains, 

He  musing  somewhat  absently  perhaps 

Some  English  question  .  .  whether  men  should  pay 

The  unpopular  but  necessary  tax 

Wih  left  or  right  hand — in  the  alien  sun, 

In  that  great  square  of  the  Santissima, 

Tliere  drifted  past  him  (scarcely  marked  enough 


AUROKA     LEIG  II.  171 

To  inc've  his  comfortable  island-scorn,) 

A  train  of  priestly  banners,  cross  and  psalm — 

The  white-veiled,  rose-crowned  maidens  holding  up 

Tall  tapers,  weighty  for  such  wrists,  aslant 

To  the  blue  luminous  tremor  of  the  air. 

And  letting  drop  tlie  white  wax  as  they  went 

To  eat  the  bisliop's  wafer  at  the  church  ; 

From  which  long  trail  of  chanting  priests  and  girls, 

A  face  flashed  like  a  cymbal  on  his  face, 

And  shook  with  silent  clangor  l)rain  and  heart. 

Transfiguring  him  to  music.     Thus,  even  thus, 

He  too  received  his  sacramental  gift 

AVith  eucharistic  meanings  ;  for  he  loved. 

And  thus  beloved,  she  died.     I've  heard  it  said 

That  but  to  see  him  in  the  first  surprise 

Of  widower  and  father,  nursing  me, 

Unniothered  little  child  of  four  3'ears  old. 

His  large  man's  hands  afraid  to  touch  my  curls, 

As  if  the  gold  would  tarnish — his  grave  lips 

Contriving  such  a  miserable  smile, 

As  if  he  knew  needs  must,  or  I  should  die, 

And  yet  'twas  hard — would  almost  make  the  stones 

Cry  out  for  pity.     There's  a  verse  he  set 

In  Santa  Croce  to  her  memory, 

"  Weep  for  an  infant  too  young  to  weep  much 

When  death  removed  this  mother'' — stops  the  mirth 

To-day,  on  women's  faces  when  they  walk 

With  rosy  children  hanging  on  their  gowns. 

Under  the  cloister,  to  escape  the  sun 

That  scorches  in  the  piazza.     After  which, 

He  left  our  J'lorence,  and  made  haste  to  hide 

Himself,  his  prattling  child,  and  silent  grief. 

Among  the  mountains  al)Ove  Pelago ; 

Because  unmothered  babes,  he  thought,  had  need 

Of  mother  nature  more  than  others  use. 

And  Pan's  white  goats,  with  udders  warm  and  full 

Of  mystic  contemplations,  come  to  feed 

Poor  milkless  lips  of  orphans  like  his  own — 

Such  scholar-scraps  he  talked,  I've  heard  from  friends 

For  even  prosaic  men,  who  wear  grief  long, 

Will  get  to  wear  it  as  a  hat  aside 

With  a  flower  stuck  in't.     Father,  then,  and  child. 

We  lived  among  the  mountains  many  years, 

God's  silence  on  tlie  outside  of  the  house, 

And  we,  who  did  not  speak  too  loud,  within; 

And  old  Assunta  to  make  up  the  fire 


178  AURORA      LEIGH. 

Crossing  herself  whene'er  a  sudden  flame 

Which  lightened  from  the  firewood,  made  alive 

That  picture  of  my  mother  on  tlie  wall. 

The  painter  drew  it  after  she  was  dead  ; 

And  when  the  face  Avas  finished,  throat  and  hands, 

Her  cameriera  carried  him,  in  liate 

Of  the  English-fashioned  shroud,  the  last  brocade 

She  dressed  in  at  the  Pitti.     "  He  should  paint 

No  sadder  thing  than  that,"  she  swore,  "  to  wrong 

Her  poor  signora."     Therefore  very  strange 

The  effect  was.     I,  a  little  child,  Avould  crunch 

For  hours  upon  the  floor,  with  knees  drawn  up 

And  gaze  across  them,  half  in  terror,  half 

In  adoration,  at  the  picture  there — 

That  swan-like  supernatural  white  life, 

Just  sailing  upward  from  the  red  stiff  silk 

Which  seemed  to  have  no  part  in  it,  nor  power 

To  keep  it  from  quite  breaking  out  of  bounds ; 

For  hours  I  sat  and  stared.     Assunta's  awe 

And  my  poor  father's  melancholy  eyes 

Still  pointed  that  way.     That  way,  went  ray  thoughts 

When  w^andering  beyond  sight.      And  as  I  grew 

In  3'ears,  I  mixed,  confused,  unconscionslj', 

Whatever  I  last  read  or  heard  or  dreamed, 

Abhorrent,  admirable,  beautiful, 

Pathetical,  or  ghastly,  or  grotesque. 

With   still   that   face  .    .    .  which    did    not   therefore 

change. 
But  kept  the  mystic  level  of  all  forms 
And  fears  and  admirations ;  was  by  turns 
Ghost,  fiend,  and  angel,  faix'y,  witch,  and  sprite — 
A  dauntless  Muse  who  eyes  a  dreadful  Fate, 
A  loving  Psyche  who  loses  sight  of  Love, 
A  still  Medusa,  with  mild  milk}-  brows 
All  curdled  and  all  clothed  upon  with  snakes 
Whose  slime  falls  fast  as  sweat  will ;  or,  anon, 
Our  Lady  of  the  Passion,  stabbed  with  swords 
Where  the  Babe  sucked ;  or.  Lamia  in  her  first 
Moonlighted  pallor,  ere  she  shrunk  and  blinked. 
And,  shuddering,  wriggled  down  to  the  unclean; 
Or,  m}-  own  mother,  leaving  her  last  smile 
In  her  last  kiss,  upon  the  baby-mouth 
M}'  father  pushed  down  on  the  bed  for  that — - 
Or  my  dead  mother,  without  smile  or  kiss, 
Buried  at  Florence.     All  which  images. 
Concentred  on  the  picture,  glassed  themselves 


AURORA     LEIGH.  17G 

Before  m}-  meditative  childhood,  ,  .  as 
The  incoiierencies  of  change  and  death 
Are  represented  full}',  mixed  ami  merged, 
In  the  smooth,  fair  mystery  of  perpetual  Life. 

And  while  I  stared  away  m}'  childish  wits 

Upon  my  poor  mother's  picture,  (ah,  poor  child  !) 

■My  father,  who  through  love  had  suddenly 

Thrown  off  the  old  conventions,  broken  loose 

From  chin-bands  of  the  soul,  like  Lazarus, 

Yet  had  no  time  to  learn  to  trflk  and  walk 

Or  o-row  anew  familiar  with  the  sun — • 

"Who  had  reached  to  freedom,  not  to  action,  lived, 

Hut  lived  as  one  entranced,  with  thoughts,  not  aims— 

Whom  love  had  unmade  fi'om  a  common  man 

But  not  completed  to  an  unconnnon  man — 

My  father  taught  me  wliat  he  had  learnt  the  best 

Before  he  died"  and  left  me — grief  and  love. 

And,  seeing  we  had  hooks  among  the  hills, 

Strong  words  of  counselling  souls,  confederate 

AVith  vocal  pines  and  waters — out  of  books 

He  taugiit  me  all  the  ignorance  of  men. 

And  how  God  laughs  in  heaven  when  any   man 

Says  "  Here  I'm  learned  ;  this,  I  understand  : 

In'that,  I  am  never  caught  at  fault  or  doubt.'' 

lie  sent  tlie  schools  to  school,  demonstrating 

A  fool  Avill  i)ass  for  such  through  one  mistake, 

Wliile  a  philosopher  will  pass  for  such. 

Through  said  mistakes  being  ventured  in  the  gross 

And  heaped  up  to  a  system. 

I  am  like, 
They  tell  me,  my  dear  father.     15roader  brows 
IIowl)eit,  upon  a  slenderer  undergrowth 
Of  delicate  features — paler,  near  as  grave  ; 
But  then  m}^  mother's  smile  breaks  up  the  whole, 
And  makes  it  better  sometimes  than  itself. 

So,  nine  full  years,  our  days  were  hid  with  God 
Among  his  mountains.     1  was  just  thirteen, 
Still  growing  like  the  plants  from  unseen  roo':s 
In  tongue-tied  Springs — and  suddenly  awoke 
To  full  life  and  its  needs  and  agonies. 
With  an  intense,  strong,  struggling  heart  beside 
A  stone-dead  father.     Life,  struck  sharp  on  death, 
Makes  awful  lightning.   His  last  word  was,  "Love — ' 
"  Love,   my  child,  love,  love !  " — (then  he  had  dons 
with  grief) 


]?0  AURORA    LEian. 

"  Love,  my  child."     Ere  I  answered  be  was  gone, 
And  none  was  left  to  love  in  all  the  world. 

There,  ended  childhood :  what  succeeded  next 

I  recollect  as,  after  fevers,  men 

Thread  back  the  passage  of  delirium, 

Missing-  the  turn  still,  battled  by  the  door  ; 

Smooth  endless  days,    notched   here  and  there  witli 

knives  ; 
A  weary,  wormy  darkness,  spurred  i'  the  flank 
With  flame,  that  it  shoinid  eat  and  end  itself 
Like  some  tormented  scorpion.     Then,  at  last, 
I  do  remember  clearl}^,  how  there  came 
A  stranger  with  authority,  not  right, 
(1  thought  not)  who  commanded,  caught  me  up 
From  old  Assunta's  neck  ;  how,  with  a  shriek. 
She  let  me  go — while  I,  with  ears  tc^o  full 
Of  my  father's  silence,  to  shriek  back  a  word, 
In  all  a  child's  astonishment  at  grief 
Stared  at  the  wharfage  where  she  stood  and  moaned, 
My  poor  Assunta,  wlieie  she  stood  and   moaned  ! 
The  white  walls,  the  blue  hills,  my  Italy, 
Drawn  backward  from  the  shuddering  steamer-deck, 
Like  one  in  anger  drawing  back  her  skirts 
Which  suppliants  catch  at.     Then  the  bitter  sea 
Inexorably  pusiied  between  us  both. 
And  sweeping  up  the  ship  with  my  despair 
Threw  us  out  as  a  pasture  to  the  stars. 
Ten  nights  and  days  we  voyaged  on  the  deep; 
Ten  nights  and  da^'s,  without  the  common  face 
Of  any  day  or  night;  the  moon  and  sun 
Cut  ofl"  from  the  green  reconciling  earth, 
To  starve  into  a  blind  ferocit3' 
And  glare  unnatural;  the  very  sk}' 
(Dropping  its  bell-net  down  upon  the  sea 
As  if  no  liuman  heart  should  'scape  alive.) 
Bedraggled  with  the  desolating  salt, 
Until  it  seemed  no  more  than  holy  heaven 

To  which  my  father  went.     All  new,  and  strange 

The  universe  turned  stranger,  for  a  child. 

Then,  land  !— then  England  !  oh,  the  frosty  cliff's 
Looked  cold  upon  me.     Could  I  find  a  home 
Among  those  mean  red  houses  through  the  fog  ? 
And  when  I  heard  my  father's  language  first  " 
From  alien  lips  which  had  no  kissfor  mine, 
I  wept  aloud,  then  laughed,  then  wept,  then  wept 


AURORA     LEia  II.  J  3] 

And  some  one  near  me  said  tlie  child  was  mad 
Tlirough  mucli  sca-sickiiess.     The  train  swept  us  on 
Was  this  my  fiitlier's  England  ?  the  groat  isle  ? 
'riie  ground  seemed  cut  up  from  the  fellowship 
Of  verdure,  field  from  field,  as  man  from  man  ; 
The  skies  themselves  lookjd  low  and  positive, 
As  almost  you  could  touch  them  with  a  hand, 
And  dared  to  do  it,  the}''  were  so  far  olf 
From  God's  celestial  crystals  ;  all  things,  blurred 
And  ilull  and  vague.     Did   Shakspeare  and  his   mates 
Absorb  the  light  here? — not  a  hill  or  stone 
With  heart  to  strike  a  radiant  color  up 
Or  active  outline  on  the  inditfcrent  air! 

I  think  I  see  my  father's  sister  stand 

Upon  the  hall-step  of  her  countrj'-house 

To  give  me  welcome.     She  stood   straight   and  calm, 

Iler  somewhat  narrow  forehead  braided  tight 

As  if  for  taminoj  accidental  thoughts 

Prom  i)ossihle  pulses ;   brown  hair  pricked  with  grey 

By  frigid  use  of  life,  (she  was  not  old. 

Although  my  father's  elder  by  a  year,) 

A  nose  drawn  sliarply,  yet  in  delicate  lines  ; 

A  close  mild  mouth,  a  little  soured  about 

The  ends,  through  speaking  unrequited  loves, 

Or  peradventure  niggardly  half-truths; 

Eyes  of  no  color — once  they  might  have  smiled, 

But  never,  never  have  forgot  themselves 

In  smiling ;  cheeks  in  which  was  yet  a  rose 

Of  perished  summers,  like  a  rosein  a  book. 

Kept  more  for  ruth  than  pleasure — if  jiast  bloom, 

Past  fading  also. 

She  had  lived  we'll  say, 
A  harmless  life,  she  called  a  virtuous  life, 
A  quiet  life,  whicli  was  not  life  at  all, 
(But  that,  she  had  not  lived  enough  to  know) 
lietween  the  vicar  and  the  county  squires, 
The  lord-lieutenant  looking  down  sometimes 
From  the  empyreal,  to  assure  their  souls 
Against  chance  vulgarisms,  and,  in  the  abj'ss, 
The  apothecary  looked  on  once  a  year, 
To  prove  their  soundness  of  hurailit}'. 
The  poor-club  exercised  her  Christian  gifts 
Of  knitting  stockings,  stitching  petticoats, 
Because  we  are  of  one  flesh  after  all 
And  need  one  flannel,  (with  a  proper  sense 
Of  difference  in  the  quality)— and  still 
52* 


182  AURORA      LEIGH. 

The  l)ook-c/ab  guarded  from  your  inodei-n  trick 
Of  shaking  dangerous  questions  from  the  crease, 
Preserved  her  intellectual.     She  had  lived 
A  sort  of  cage-bird  life,  born  in  a  cage, 
Accounting  that  to  leap  from  perch  to  perch 
Was  act  and  J03'  enough  for  any  bird. 
Dear  heaven,  how  silly  are  the  things  that  live 
In  thickets,  and  eat  berries! 

I,  alas, 
A  wild  bird  scarcely  fledged,  was  brought  to  her  case, 
And  she  was  there  to  meet  me.     Very  kind. 
Bring  the  clean  water;  give  out  the  fresh  seed. 
She  stood  upon  the  steps  to  welcome  me, 
Calm,  in  black  garb.    I  clung  about  her  neck — 
Young  babes,  who  catch  at  every  shred  of  wool 
To  draw  tiie  new  light  closer,  catch  and  cling 
Less  blindly.     In  my  ears,  my  father's  Avord 
Hummed  ignorantly,  as  the  sea  in  shells, 
"Love,  love,    my  child."     She,  black  there  with  my 

grief. 
Might  feel  my  love — she  was  his  sister  once — 
I  cluns;  to  her.     A  moment,  she  seemed  moved, 
Kissed  me  with  cold  lips,  suffered  me  to  cling, 
And  drew  me  feebh'  through  the  hull,  into 
The  room  she  sat  in. 

There,  with  some  strange  spasm 
Of  pain  and  passion,  she  wrung  loose  my  hands 
Imperiously,  and  held  me  at  arm's  length. 
And  with  two  grey-steel  naked-bladed  ej'es 
Searched  through  m}-  face — ay,  stabbed  it  through  and 

through. 
Through  brows  and  cheeks  ana  chin,  as  if  to  find 
A  wicked  murderer  in  my  innocent  face, 
If  not  here,  there  perhaps.     Then,  drawing  breath, 
She  struggled  for  her  ordinary  calm. 
And  missed  it  rather — told  me  not  to  shrink, 
As  if  she  had  told  me  not  to  lie  or  swear — 
"  She  loved  my  father,  and  would  love  me  too 
As  long  as  I  deserved  it."     Xevy  kind. 

I  undei'stood  her  meaning  afterwai'd  ; 
She  thought  to  tind  my  mother  in  my  face. 
And  questioned  it  for  that.     For  she,  my  aunt, 
Had  loved  my  father  trul}',  as  she  could. 
And  hated,  with  the  gall  of  gentle  souls, 
My  Tuscan  mother,  who  had  fooled  away 
A  wise  man  from  wise  courses,  a  good  man 


A  U  K  O  R  A     L  E  I  G  H .  1  erj 

From  obvious  duties,  and,  depriving  Iier, 

His  sister,  of  the  household  precedenee, 

Had  wronged  his  tenants,  robbed  his  native  land, 

And  made  him  mad,  alike  by  Hie  and  death, 

In  love  and  sorrow.     She  had  pored  for  3'ears 

What  sort  of  woman  could  be  suitable 

To  her  sort  of  hate,  to  entertain  it  with  ; 

And  so,  her  very  cnri(;sity 

Became  hate  too,  and  all  the  idealism 

She  ever  used  in  life,  was  used  for  hate, 

Till  hate,  so  nourished,  did  exceed  at  last 

The  love  from  which  it  grew,  in  strengtii  and  heat, 

And  v.M-inkled  her  smooth  conscience  with  a  sense 

Of  disputable  virtue  (say  not,  sin) 

When  Christian  doctrine  was  enforced  at  church. 

And  thus  my  ftither's  sister  was  to  me 

My  mother's  hater.     From  that  day,  she  did 

Her  duty  to  me,  (1  appreciate  it 

in  her  own  word  as  spoken  to  herself) 

Her  duty,  in  large  measure,  well-pressed  out, 

But  measured  always.     She  was  generous,  bland, 

More  courteous  than  was  tender,  gave  me  still 

The  first  place — as  if  fearful  that  God's  saints 

Would  look  down  suddenly  and  say,  "  Herein 

You  missed  a  point,  I  think,  through  lack  of  love  " 

Alas,  a  mother  never  is  afraid 

Of  speaking  angrily  to  any  child. 

Since  love,  she  knows,  is  justified  of  love. 

And  I,  I  was  a  good  child,  on  the  whole, 

A  meek  and  manageable  child.      Why  not? 

I  did  not  live,  to  have  the  faults  of  life: 

There  seemed  more  true  life  in  m}'  father's  grave 

Than  in  all  England.     Since  that  threw  me  off 

Who  fain  would  cleave,  (his  latest  will,  they  say, 

Consigned  me  to  his  land)  I  only  thought 

Of  lying  quiet  there  where  I  was  thrown 

Like  sea-weed  on  the  rocks,  and  suffer  her 

To  prick  me  to  a  pattern  with  her  pin. 

Fibre  from  fibre,  delicate  leaf  from  leaf, 

And  dry  out  from  my  drowned  anatomy 

The  last  sea-salt  left  in  me. 

So  it  was. 
I  broke  the  copious  curls  upon  my  head 
In  braids,  because  she  liked  smooth  ordered  hair, 
t  left  off  saying  my  sweet  Tuscan  words 


184  A  U  R  0  R  A      L  E  1  G  H  .  .^ 

Which  still  lit  any  stirring  of  the  heart 

Came  up  to  float  across  the  English  phrase, 

As  lilies,  (Bene  .  .  or  che  ch''e)  because 

She  liked  my  father's  child  to  speak  his  tongue. 

T  learnt  the  collect?  and  the  catechism. 

The  creeds,  from  Athanasius  back  to  Nice, 

The  Articles  .  .  the  Tracts  against  the  times, 

(By  no  means  Buonaventure's  "  Prick  ot  Love,'*) 

And  various  popular  synopses  of 

Inhuman  doctrines  never  taught  by  John, 

Because  she  liked  instructed  piet3\ 

I  learnt  my  complement  of  classic  French 

(Kept  pure  of  Balzac  and  neologism,) 

And  German  also,  since  she  liked  a  range 

Of  liberal  education — tongues,  not  books. 

I  learnt  a  little  algebra,  a  little 

Of  the  mathematics — brushed  with  extreme  flounce 

The  circle  of  the  sciences,  because 

She  misliked  women  who  are  frivolous, 

I  leaint  the  royal  genealogies 

Qf  Oviedo,  the  internal  laws 

Of  the  Burmese  Empire,  .  .  by  how  many  feet 

Mount  Chimborazo  outsoars  Ilimmeleh, 

What  navigable  river  joins  itt^elf 

To  Lara,  and  wiiat  census  of  the  year  five 

Was  taken  at  Klagenfurt — because  she  liked 

A  general  insight  into  useful  facts. 

1  learnt  much  music — such  as  would  have  been 

As  quite  impossible  in  Johnson's  day 

As  still  it  might  be  wished — fine  sleights  of  hand 

And  unimagined  fingering,  shuffling  off    • 

'I'he  hearer's  soul  through  hurricanes  of  notes 

To  a  noisy  Tophet ;  and  I  drew  .  .  costumes 

From  French  engravings,  nereids  neatl}'  draped. 

With  smirks  of  simmering  godships — I  washed  in 

From  nature,  landscapes,  (rather  say,  washed  out.) 

1  danced  the  polka  and  Cellarius, 

Spun  glass,  stuffed  birds,  and  modelled  flowers  in  wax 

Because  she  liked  accomplishments  in  girls. 

I  read  a  score  of  books  on  womanhood 

To  prove,  if  women  do  not  think  at  all, 

Thcv  may  teach  thinking,  (to  a  maiden  aunt 

Or  else  the  author) — books  demonstrating 

Their  right  of  comprehending  husband's  talk 

Wlieu  not  too  deep,  and  even  of  answerirg 

With  pretty  "  ma}'  it  i)lease  you^  or  "  so  it  is" — 


A  U  R  O  R  A      L  E  I  a  H  .  1  35 

Their  rapid  insight  and  fine  aptitude, 

Particular  wortli  and  general  niissionariness, 

As  long  as  the}'  keep  quiet  by  the  fire 

And  never  sa_y  "  no  "  when  the  world  says  "  ay," 

For  that  is  fatal — their  angelic  reach 

Of  virtue,  chiefly  used  to  sit  and  darn, 

And- fatten  household  sinners — their,  in  brief. 

Potential  facult^'^  in  everything 

Of  abdicating  power  in  it:  she  owned 

She  liked  a  women  to  be  womanly, 

And  English  women,  she  thanked  God  and  sighed, 

(Some  people  always  sigh  in  thanking  God) 

Were  models  to  the  universe.     And  last 

I  learnt  cross-stitch,  ])eeause  she  did  not  like 

To  see  me  wear  the  night  with  empty  hands, 

A-doing  nothing.     So,  my  shepherdess 

Was  something  after  all,  (the  pastoral  saints 

Be  praised  for't)  leaning  lovelorn  with  pink  eyes 

To  match  her  shoes,  Avhen  I  mistook  the  silks  ; 

Her  head  nncrushed  by  that  round  weight  of  hat 

So  strangely  similar  to  the  tortoise-shell 

Which  slew  the  tragic  poet. 

By  the  way. 
The  works  of  women  are  symbolical. 
We  sew,  sew,  prick  our  fingers,  dull  our  sight, 
Producing  what  ?     A  pair  of  slippers,  sir. 
To  put  on  when  you're  weary — or  a  stool 
To  tumble  over  and  vex  you  .  .  "  curse  that  stool  1  " 
Or  else  at  best,  a  cushion  Avhere  you  lean 
And  sleep,  and  dream  of  something  we  are  not, 
But  would  be  for  your  sake.     Alas,  alas  ! 
This  hurts  most,  this  .  .  that,  after  all,  we  are  paid 
The  worth  of  our  work,  perhaps. 

■^n  looking  down 
Those  years  of  education,  (to  return) 
1  wonder  if  Brinvilliers  suffered  more 
In  the  water  torture,  .  .  flood  succeeding  flood 
To  drench  the  incapable  throat  and  split  the  veins  . 
Than  I  did.     Certain  of  your  feebler  souls 
Go  out  in  such  a  process  ;  many  pine 
To  a  sick,  inodorous  light^my  own  endured: 
1  had  relations  in  the  Unseen,  and  drew 
The  elemental  nutriment  and  heat 
From  nature,  as  earth  feels  the  sun  at  nights, 
Or  as  a  babe  sucks  surely  in  the  dark, 
I  kept  the  life,  thrust  on  me,  on  the  outside 


186  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Of  the  inner  life,  with  all  its  ample  room 
For  heart  and  luugs,  for  will  and  intellect, 
Inviolable  by  conventions.     God, 
I  thank  thee  for  that  grace  of  thine  ! 

At  first, 
I  felt  no  life  which  was  not  patience — did 
The  thing  she  bade  me,  without  heed  to  a  thing 
Beyond  it,  sat  in  just  the  chair  she  placed, 
With  back  against  the  window,  to  exclude  ' 
The  sight  of  the  great  lime-tree  on  the  lawn, 
Which  seemed  to  have   come  on  pui'pose   from  the 

woods 
To  bring  the  house  a  message — a^^  and  walked 
Demurely  in  her  carpeted  low  rooms, 
As  if  I  should  not,  hearkening  my  own  stejDs, 
Misdoubt  I  was  alive.     I  read  her  books. 
Was  civil  to  her  cousin,  Romne}'  Leigh, 
Gave  ear  to  her  vicar,  tea  to  her  visitors 
And  heard  them  whisper,  when  I  changed  a  cup, 
(I  blushed  for  joy  at  that) — "  The  Italian  child. 
For  all  her  blue  eyes  and  her  quiet  ways, 
Thrives  ill  in  England  ;  she  is  paler  yet 
Than  when  we  came  the  last  time;  she  will  die." 

"Will  die."  My  cousin,  Romney  Leigh,  bluslied  too, 

With  sudden  anger,  and  approaching  me 

Said  low  between  his  teeth — "  You're  wicked  now  ? 

You  wish  to  die  and  leave  the  vvorld  a-dusk 

For  others,  with  your  naughty  light  blown  .out? 

I  looked  into  his  face  defyingly. 

He  might  have  known,  that,  being  what  I  was, 

'Twas  natural  to  like  to  getaway 

As  far  as  dead  folk  can  ;  and  then  indeed 

Some  people  make  no  trouble  when  they  die. 

He  turned  and  went  abruptly,  slammed  the  door 

And  shut  his  dog  out. 

Romney,  Romney  Leigh. 
I  have  not  named  my  cousin  hitherto, 
And  yet  I  used  him  as  a  sort  of  friend ; 
My  elder  by  a  few  years,  but  cold  and  shy 
And  absent  .  .  tender  when  he  thought  of  it. 
Which  scarcely  was  imperative,  grave  betimes, 
As  well  as  early  master  of  Leigh  Hall, 
Whereof  the  nightmare  sat  upon  hia  youth 
Repressing  all  its  seasonable  delights, 
And  agonizing  with  a  ghastly  sense 


AURORA      LEIGH.  18V 

Of  universal  hideous  want  and  wrong 

To  incriminate  possession.     When  he  came 

From  college  to  the  country,  very  oft 

He  crossed  the  bills  on  visits  to  my  aunt, 

With  gifts  of  blue  grapes  from  the  hot  houses, 

A.  book  in  one  hand — mere  statistics,  (if 

I  chanced  io  lift  the  cover)  count  of  all 

The  goats  whose  beards  are  sprouting  down  toward 

licll, 
j^ gainst  God's  separating  judgment-hour. 
i\nd  she,  she  almost  loved  him — even  allowed 
That  sometimes  he  should  seem  to  sigh  m}'-  way  ; 
It  made  him  easier  to  be  pitiful, 
And  sighing  was  his  gift.     So,  undisturbed 
At  whiles  she  let  him  shut  my  music  up 
And  push  my  needles  down,  and  lead  me  oui 
To  see  in  that  south  angle  of  the  house 
The  figs  grow  black  as  if  by  a  Tuscan  rock, 
On  somelight  pretext.     She  would  turn  her  head 
At  other  moments,  go  to  fetch  a  thing. 
And  leave  me  breath  enough  to  speak  with  him. 
For  his  sake  ;  it  was  simple. 

Sometimes  too 
He  would  have  saved  me  utterly,  it  seemed, 
He  stood  and  looked  so. 

Once,  he  stood  so  near 
He  dropped  a  sudden  hand  upon  my  head 
Bent  down  on  woman's  work,  as  soft  as  rain — 
But  then  I  rose  and  shook  it  off  as  tire, 
The  stranger's  touch  that  took  my  father's  place, 
Yet  dared  seem  soft. 

I  used  him  for  a  friend 
Before  I  ever  knew  him  for  a  friend. 
'Twas  better,  'twas  worse  also,  afterward  : 
We  came  so  close,  we  saw  our  differences 
Too  intimately.     Always  Romucy  Leigh 
Was  looking  for  the  worms,  I  for  the  gods. 
A  godlike  nature  his  ;  the  gods  look  down. 
Incurious  of  themselves  ;  and  certainly 
'Tis  well  I  should  remember,  how,  those  days, 
I  was  a  worm  too,  and  he  looked  on  me. 

A  little  by  his  act  perhaps,  yet  more 
B}'  something  in  me,  surely  not  m^'  will, 
I  did  not  die.     But  slowly-,  as  one  in  swoon. 
To  whom  life  creeps  back  in  the  form  of  death 


1 83  AURORA     LEIGH. 

With  a  sense  of  separation,  a  blind  pain 

Of  blank  obstruction,  and  a  roar  i'  the  ears 

Of  visionary  chariots  which  retreat 

As  earth  grows  clearer  .  .  slowly,  by  degrees, 

I  woke,  rose  up  .  .  where  was  I  ?  in  the  world  ; 

For  nscs,  therefore,  I  must  count  worth  while.    . 

I  had  a  little  chamber  in  the  house. 

As  green  as  any  privet-hedge  a  bird 

Might  choose  to  build  in,  though  the  nest  itself 

Could  show  but  dead-brown  sticks  and  straws ;  the  walla 

Were  green,  the  carpet  was  pare  green,  the  straight 

Small  bed  was  curtained  greenl}',  and  the  folds 

Hung  green  about  the  window,  which  let  in 

The  out-door  world  with  all  its  greenery. 

You  could  not  push  your  head  out  and  escape 

A  dash  of  dawn-dew  from  the  honeysuckle, 

But  so  you  were  baptized  into  the  grace 

And  privilege  of  seeing.  .  . 

First,  the  lime, 
(I  had  enough,  there,  of  the  lime,  be  sure — 
My  morning-dream  Avas  ofter  hummed  awa}' 
By  the  bees  in  it ;)  past  the  lime,  the  lawn, 
Which,  after  sweeping  broadly  round  the  house, 
"Went  trickling  through  the  shrubberies  in  a  stream 
Of  tender  turf,  and  wore  and  lost  itself 
Among  the  acacias,  over  which,  you  saw 
The  irregular  line  of  elms  b}'  the  deep  lane 
Which  stopped  the  grounds  and  dammed  the  overflow 
Of  arbutus  and  laurel.-    Out  of  sight 
The  lane  was  ;  sunk  so  deep,  no  foreign  tramp 
Nor  drover  of  wild  ponies  out  of  Wales 
Could  guess  if  lady's  hall  or  tenant's  lodge 
Dispensed  such  odors — though  his  stick  well-crooked 
Might  reach  the  lowest  trail  of  blossoming  briar 
Which  dipped  upon  the  wall.     Behind  the  tlins, 
And  througli  their  tops,  3'Oa  saw  the  folded  hills 
Striped  up  and  down  with   hedges,  (burly  oaks 
Projecting  from  the  lines  to  show  themselves) 
Through  which  my  cousin  RomneA^'s  chimneys  smoked 
As  still  as  when  a  silent  mouth  in  frost 
Breathes — showing  where   the   woodlands  hid  Leigh 

Hall; 
While,  far  above,  a  jut  of  table  land, 
A  promontory  without  water,  stretched — ■ 
You  could  not  catch  it  if  the  days  were  thick, 
Or  took  it  for  a  cloud  :  but,  otherwise 


AURORA     LEian.  i8(j 

The  vigorous  sun  would  catch  it  up  at  eve 

And  use  it  for  au  auvil  till  he  had  filled 

The  shelves  of  heaven  with  burning  thunderbolts, 

And  proved  he  need  not  rest  so  earl}- ; — then 

When  all  his  setting  trouble  was  resolved 

To  a  trance  of  passive  glory,  30U  might  see 

In  apparition  on  the  golden  sky 

(Alas,  my  Giotto's  back  groui\d  !)  the  sheep  run 

Along  the  fine  clear  outline,  small  as  mice 

That  run  along  a  witch's  scarlet  thread. 

Not  a  grand  nature.     Not  my  chestnut-woods 
Of  Yallombrosa,  cleaving  b^-  the  spurs 
To  the  precipices.     Not  my  headlong  leaps ^ 
Of  waters,  that  cry  out  i'or  joy  or  fear 
In  leaping  through  the  palpitating  pines. 
Like  a  white  soul  tossed  out  to  eternity' 
AVith  tiuills  of  time  upon  it.     Not  indeed 
My  multitudinous  mountains,  sitting  in 
The  magic  circle,  with  the  mutual  touch 
Electric,  panting  from  their  full  deep  hearts 
Beneath  the  influent  heavens,  and  waitino-  for 
Communion  and  commission.     Italy 
Is  one  thing,  England  one. 

On  English  ground 
You  understand  the  letter  .  .  ei-e  the  fall, 
How  Adam  lived  in  a  garden.     All  the  fields 
Are  tied  up  fast  with  hedges,  nosegay-like  ; 

The  hills  are  crumpled  plains— the  plains,  parterres 

The  trees,  round,  woolly,  ready  to  be  clipped  ; 
And  if  you  seek  for  any  wilderness 
You  find,  at  best,  a  park.     A  nature  tamed 
And  grown  domestic  like  a  barn-door  fowl. 
Which  does  not  awe  you  with  its  claws  and  beak, 
Nor  tempt  you  to  an  eyrie  too  high  up. 
But  which,  in  cackling,  sets  you  thinking  of 
Y^'our  eggs  to-morrow  at  breakfast,  in  the  pause 
Of  finer  meditation. 

Rather  say 
A  sweet  familiar  nature,  stealing  in 
As  a  dog  might,  or  child,  to  touch  your  hand 
Or  pluck  your  gown,  and  humbly  mind  you  so 
Of  presence  and  affection,  excellent 
For  inner  uses,  from  the  things  without. 

I  could  not  be  unthankful,  I  who  was 
Entreated  thus  and  holpen.     Jn  the  room 


100  AURORA     LEIOH. 

I  speak  of,  ere  the  house  was  well  awake. 

And  also  after  it  was  well  asleep, 

I  sat  alone,  and  drew  the  blessing  in 

Of  all  that  nature.     With  a  gradual  step, 

A  stir  among  the  leaves,  a  breath,  a  ray, 

It  came  in  softly,  while  the  angels  made 

A  place  for  it  beside  me.     The  moon  came, 

And  swept  my  chamber  clean  of  foolish  thoughts. 

The  sun  came,  saying,  "  Shall  I  lift  this  light 

Against  the  lime-tree,  and  you  will  not  look  ? 

I  make  the  birds  sing — listen  !  .  .  but,  for  you, 

God  never  hears  your  voice,  excepting  when 

You  lie  upcn  tlie  bed  at  nights  and  weep." 

Then,  something  moved  me.      Tlien,  I  wakened  up 

More  slowly-  than  I  veril^^  write  now. 

But  wholly,  at  last,  I  wakened,  opened  wide 

The  window  and  my  soul,  ami  let  the  airs 

And  out-door  sights  sweep  gradual  gospels  in, 

Regenerating  what  I   was.     O  Life, 

How  oft  we  throw  it  off  and  think — "Enough. 

Enough  of  life  in  so  much  ! — liere's  a  cause 

For  rupture ; — herein  we  must  break  with  Life, 

Or  be  ourselves  unworthy;   liere  we  are  wronged. 

Maimed,  spoiled  for  as])iration  ;  farewell  Life  i'' 

— And  so,  as  fioward  babes,  we  hide  our  eyes 

And  think  all  ended. — Then,  Life  calls  to  us 

hi  some  transformed,  apocryphal,  new  voice, 

Above  us,  or  below  us,  or  around  .  . 

Perhaps  we  name  it  Nature's  voice,  or  Love's, 

Tricking  ourselves,  because  we  are  more  ashamed 

To  own  our  compensations  than  our  griefs: 

Still,  Life's  voice  ! — still,  we  make  our  peace  with  Life 

And  I,  so  young  then,  was  not  sullen.     Soon 
I  used  to  get  up  early,  just  to  sit 
And  watch  the  morning  quicken  in  the  grey, 
And  hear  the  silence  open  like  a  flower, 
Leaf  after  leaf — and  stroke  with  listless  hand 
The  woodbine  through  the  window,  till  at  last 
I  came  to  do  it  with  a  sort  of  love, 

4t  foolish  unaware  :   whereat  I  smiled 

A  melancholy  smile,  to  catch  myself 
Smiling  for  joy. 

Capacit^'^  for  joj- 
Admits  temptation.     It  seemed,  next,  worth  while 
To  dodge  the  sharp  sword  set  against  my  life  ; 


AURORA     LEiaH.  19 1 

To  slip  down  stairs  througli  all  the  sleepy  house 

As  mute  as  any  dream  there,  and  escape 

As  a  soul  from  the  body,  out  of  doors — 

Glide  throuuh  the  shrubberies,  drop  into  the  lane, 

And  wander  on  the  hills  a!i  hour  or  two, 

Then  back  again  before  the  house  should  stir. 

Or  else  I  sat  on  in  my  chamber  green, 

And   lived    my  life,  and  thought    m}'-   thoughts,  and 

prayed 
My  prayers  without  the  vicar;    read  m}'  books, 
Without  considering  whether  tliey  were  tit 
To  do  me  good.     Mark,  there.      ^Ve  get  no  good 
By  being  ungenerous,  even  to  a  book. 
And  calculating  profits  .  .  so  much  help 
By  so  much  reading.     It  is  ratlier  when 
We  gloriously  forget  ourselves,  and  plunge 
Souf-forward,  headlong,  into  a  book's  profound. 
Impassioned  for  its  beauty  and  salt  of  truth — 
'Tis  then  we  get  the  right  good  from  a  book. 

I  read  much.     What  my  father  taught  before 

From  many  a  volume,  Love  re-emphasized 

Upon  the  self-same  pages;  Theophrast 

Grew  tender  with  the  memorj'  of  his  eyes, 

And  .Elian  made  mine  wet.     The  trick  of  Greek 

And  Latin,  he  had  taught  me,  as  he  would 

Have  taught  me  wrestling  or  the  game  of  fives, 

If  such  he  had  known — most  like  a  shipwrecked  man, 

Who  heaps  his  single  platter  with  goats'  cheese 

And  scarlet  berries  ;  or  like  any  man 

Who  loves  but  one,  and  so  gives  all  at  once, 

Because  he  has  it,  rather  than  because 

He  counts  it  worthy.     Thus,  my  father  gave; 

And  thus,  as  did  the  women  formerly 

By  young  Achilles,  when  they  pinned  the  veil 

Across  tiie  boy's  audacious  front,  and^swept 

With  tuneful  laughs  the  silver-fretted  rocks, 

He  wrapt  his  little  daughter  in  his  large 

Man's  doublet,  careless  did  it  fit  or  no. 

But,  after  I  had  read  for  memory, 

I  read  for  hope.     The  path  my  father's  foot 

Had  trod  me  out,  which  suddenly  broke  off, 

(What  time  he  dropped  the  wallet  of  the  flesh 

And  passed)  alone  I  carried  on,  and  set 

My  child-heart  'gainst  the  thorny  underwoou, 


192  AURORA     LEIGH. 

To  reacli  the  grassy  shelter  of  the  trees. 
Ah,  babe  i'  the  wood,  without  a  brother-baba 
My  own  self-pity,  like  the  red-breast  bird. 
Flies  back  to  cover  all  that  past  with  leave**. 

Sublimest  danger,  over  which  none  weeps, 

When  any  young  wayfaring  soul  goes  forth 

Alone,  unconscious  of  the  perilous  road. 

The  day-sun  dazzling  in  his  limpid  eyes, 

To  thrust  his  own  way,  he  an  alien,  through 

The  world  of  books  !     Ah,  you! — you  think  it  fine, 

You  clap  hands — "A  fair  day  !'' — 3'ou  cheer  him  on, 

As  if  the  worst,  could  happen,  were  to  rest 

Too  long  beside  a  fountain.     Yet,  behold, 

Behold  ! — the  world  of  books  is  still  tlie  world  ; 

And  worldlings  in  it  are  less  merciful 

And  more  puissant.     For  the  wicked  there 

Are  winged  like  angels.     Every  knife  that  strikes, 

Is  edged  from  elemental  fire  to  assail 

A  spiritual  life.     The   beautiful  seems  right 

B}'  force  of  beauty,  and  the  feeble  wrong 

Because  of  weakness.     Power  is  justified. 

Though  armed  against  St.  Michael.     Many  a  crown 

Covers  bald  foreheads.     Jn  the  book-world,  true. 

There's  no  lack,  neither,  of  God's  saints  and  kings, 

That  shake  the  ashes  of  the  grave  aside 

From  their  calm  locks,  and  undiscomfited 

Ijook  steadfast  truths  against  Time's  changing  mask 

True,  many  a  prophet  teaches  in  the  i-oads ; 

True,  man}'  a  seer  pulls  down  the  flaming  heavens 

Upon  his  own  head  in  strong  martyrdom, 

In  order  to  light  men  a  moment's  space. 

But  stay! — who  judges? — who  distinguishes 

'Twixt  Saul  and  Nahash  justi}',  at  first  sight, 

And  leaves  king  Saul  precisely  at  the  sin. 

To  serve  king  David  ?  who  discerns  at  once 

The  sound  of  the  trumpets,  when  the  trumpets  \ilow 

For  Alaric  as  well  as  Charlemagne  ? 

Who  judges  prophets,  and  can  tell  true  seers 

From   conjurors?      The   child,    there?     Would    \ou 

leave 
That  child  to  wander  in  a  battle-field 
And  push  his  innocent  smile  against  the  guns? 
Or  even  in  the  catacombs,  .  .   his  torch 
Grown  ragged  in  the  fluttering  air,  and  all 
The  dark  ri-mutter  round  him  ?  not  a  child 


AUROllA      LEIGH.  lOa 

1  read  books  l)a(l  aiul  good — some  bad  and  good 
At  once :  good  aims  not  ahva3'S  make  good  books ; 
\Vell-temi)cred  spades  turn  up  ill-smelling  soils 
In  digging  vine3'ards,  even:  books,  that  prove 
Gods  being  so  definitely,  that  man's  doubt 
Grows  self-defined  the  other  side  the  line, 
Made  Atheist  b}'  suggestion  ;  moral  books, 
Exasperating  to  license  ;  genial  books. 
Discounting  from  the  human  dignity  ; 
And  merry  books,  which  set  you  weeping  when 
The  sun  shines — ay,  and  melancholy'  books. 
Which  make  you  laugh  that  any  one  should  weep 
In  this  disjointed  life,  for  one  wrong  more. 

'I'he  world  of  books  is  still  the  world,  I  write, 
And  both  worlds  have  God's  pi'ovidence,  thank  God, 
To  keep  and  hearten  :  with  some  struggle,  indeed, 
Among  the  breakers,  some  hard  swimming  through 
The  deeps — I  lost  breath  in  my  soul  sometimes, 
And  cried,  "  God  save  me  if  there's  any  God." 
But,  even  so,  God  save  me ;  and,  being  dashed 
From  error  on  to  error,  every  turn 
Still  brought  me  nearer  to  the  central  truth. 

1  tliought  so.     All  this  anguish  in  the  thick 
Of  men's  opinions  .  .  press  and  counterpress, 
Now  up,  now  down,  now  underfoot,  and  now 
Emergent  .  .  all  the  best  of  it  perhaps, 
But  throws  3'ou  back  upon  a  noble  trust 
And  use  of  j'our  own  instinct — merely  proves 
Pure  reason  stronger  than  bare  inference 
At  strongest.     Try  it — fix  against  heaven's  wall 
Vour  scaling  ladder  of  high  logic — mount 
Step  by  step ! — Sight  goes  faster  ;  that  still  ray 
Which  strikes  out  from  you,  how,  3'ou  cannot  tell, 
And  wh3',  j'ou  know  not — (did  3'ou  eliminate, 
That  such  as  you,  indeed,  should  anal3'ze?) 
Goes  straight  and  fast  as  light,  and  high  as  God. 

The  C3'gnet  finds  the  water;  but  the  man 
Is  born  in  ignorance  of  his  element, 
And  feels  out  blind  at  first,  disorganized 
B3'  sin  i'  the  blood — his  spirit-insight  dulled 
And  crossed  by  his  sensations.     Presently 
We  feel  it  quicken  in  the  dark  sometimes  ; 
'I'hen  mark,  be  reverent,  be  obedient — 
For  those  dum  motions  of  imperfect  life 
53» 


194  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Are  oracles  of  vital  Deit}^ 

Attesting  the  Hereafter.     Let  who  sa_ys 

"  The  soul's  a  clean  white  paper,"  rather  say, 

A  palimpsest,  a  prophet's  holograph 

Defiled,  erased  and  covered  by  a  monk's — 

The  apocalypse,  by  a  Longus  !  poring  on 

Which  obscene  text,  we  ma}'  discern  perhaps 

Some  fair,  fine  trace  of  what  was  written  once, 

Some  upstroke  of  an  alpha  and  omega 

Expressing  the  old  scripture. 

Books,  books,  books 
I  had  found  the  secret  of  a  garret-room 
Piled  high  with  cases  in  my  father's  name  ; 
Piled  high,  packed  large — where,  creeping  in  and  out 
Among  the  giant  fossils  of  my  past, 
Like  some  small  nimble  mouse  between  the  ribs 
Of  a  mastodon,  I  nibbled  here  and  there 
At  this  or  that  box,  pulling  through  the  gap, 
In  heats  of  terror,  haste,  victorious  J03', 
The  first  book  first.     And  how  I  felt  it  beat 
Under  my  pillow,  in  the  morning's  dark. 
An  hour  before  the  sun  would  let  me  read  ! 
My  books  ! 

At  last,  because  the  time  was  ripe, 
I  chanced  upon  the  poets. 

As  the  earth 
Plunges  in  fury,  when  the  internal  fires 
Have  reached  and  pricked  her  heart,  and,  throwing  fiat 
The  marts  and  temples,  the  triumphal  gates 
And  towers  of  observation,  clears  herself 
To  elemental  freedom — thus,  m}'  soul, 
At  poetr3''s  divine  first  finger  touch, 
Let  go  conventions  and  sprang  up  surprised. 
Convicted  of  the  great  eternities 
Before  two  worlds. 

What's  this,  Aurora  Leigh, 
You  write  so  of  the  poets,  and  not  laugh  ? 
Those  virtuous  liars,  dreamers  after  dark, 
Exaggerators  of  the  sun  and  moon, 
A.nd  soothsayers  in  a  tea-cup  ? 

I  write  so 
Of  the  only  truth-tellers,  now  left  to  God — 
The  only  speakers  of  essential  truth, 
Opposed  to  relative,  comparative, 
And  temporal  truths ;  the  only  holders  by 
His  sun-skirts,  through  conventional  gray  glooms  j 


••  Books,  books,  books! 
I  had  found  the  secret  of  a  garret-room 
Piled  high  with  cases  in  my  lather's  name.' 


A  U  R  0  R  A     L  E  I  a  n.  1  OS 

The  only  teachers  who  instruct  mankind, 

From  just  a  shadow  on  a  charnel  Avail, 

To  find  man's  veritable  slalure  out, 

Erect,  sublime — the  measure  of  a  man, 

And  that's  the  measure  of  an  angel,  says 

The  apostle.     A3',  and  wliile  your  common  men 

Build  pyramids,  gauge  railroads,  reign,  reap,  dine, 

And  dust  the  flaunty  carpets  of  the  world 

For  kings  to  walk  on,  or  our  senators. 

The  poet  suddenly  will  catcli  them  up 

With  his  voice  like  a  thunder  .  .   "  This  is  soul, 

This  is  life,  this  w6rd  is  being  said  in  heaven. 

Here's  God  down  on  us!  what  are  you  about?" 

How  all  those  workers  start  amid  their  work. 

Look  round,  look  up,  and  feel,  a  moment's  space, 

That  cari)et-dusting,  tliough  a  pretty  trade. 

Is  not  the  imperative  labor  after  all. 

Mj'  own  best  poets,  am  I  one  with  you, 

That  thus  1  love  you — or  but  one  through  love  ? 

Does  all  tliis  smell  of  thyme  about  my  feet 

Conclude  my  visit  to  your  hol}^  hill 

In  personal  presence,  or  but  testify 

The  rustling  of  your  vesture  tlirough  my  dreams 

With  influent  odors  ?     When  ni}'^  joy  and  pain, 

My  thought  and  aspiration,  like  the  stops 

Of  pipe  or  flute,  are  absolutely  dumb 

If  not  melodious,  do. you  play  on  me, 

My  pipers — and  if,  sooth,  you  did  not  blow, 

Would  not  sound  come  ?  or  is  the  music  mine. 

As  a  man's  voice  or  breath  is  called  his  own, 

Inbreathed  by  the  Life-breather  ?  There's  a  doub. 

For  cloud}'  seasons  ! 

But  the  sun  was  high 
When  first  I  felt  m}'  pulses  set  themselves 
For  concords  ;  when  the  rhythmic  turbulence 
Of  blood  and  brain  swept  outward  upon  words, 
As  wind  upon  the  alders  blanching  them 
B3'  turning  up  their  under-natures  till    ' 
The_y  trembled  in  dilation.     0  delight 
And  triumph  of  the  poet — who  would  say 
A  man's  mere  "yes,"  a  woman's  common  "no," 
A  little  human  hope  of  that  or  this. 
And  says  the  word  so  that  it  burns  3'ou  througu 
With  a  special  revelation,  shakes  the  hean. 
Of  all  the  men  and  women  in  the  world, 


196  AURORA     LEIGH. 

As  if  one  came  back  from  the  dead  and  spoke, 
With  e^^es  too  happy,  a  familiar  thing 
Become  divine  i'  tlae  utterance  !  while  for  him 
The  poet,  the  speaktM-,  he  expands  with  joy  ; 
The  palpitating  angel  in  his  flesh 
Thrills  inly  with  consenting  fellowship 
To  those  innnmerous  spirits  who  sun  themselves 
Outside  of  time. 

0  life,  0  poetry, 
— Which  means  life  in  life !  cognizant  of  life 
/Bej'ondthis  blood-beat — passionate  for  truth 
Be3'ond  these  senses — poetry,  m^^  life — 
My  eagle,  with  both  grappling  feet  still  hot 
From  Zeus's  thunder,  who  has  ravished  me 
Aw'ay  from  all  the  shepherds,  sheep  and  dogs, 
And  set  me  in  the  Olympian  roar  and  round 
Of  luminous  faces,  for  a  cup-bearer, 
To  keep  the  mouths  of  all  the  godheads  moist 
For  everlasting  laughters — I,  nu'self. 
Half  drunk  across  the  beaker,  Avith  their  e^es 
How  those  gods  look  1 

Enough  so,  Ganj-mede. 
We  shall  not  bear  above  a  round  or  two — 
We  drop  the  golden  cup  at  Here's  foot 
And  swoon  back  to  the  earth — and  find  ourselves 
Face-down  among  the  pine-cones,  cold  with  dew, 
While  the  dogs  bark,  and  man}-  a  shepherd  scoffs, 
"  What's  come  now  to  the  youth  ?  "     Such  ups  and 

downs 
Have  poets. 

Am  I  such  indeed  ?     The  name 
Is  ro3'al,  and  to  sign  it  like  a  queen, 
Is  what  I  dare  not — though  some  royal  blood 
Would  seem  to  tingle  in  me  now  and  then. 
With  sense  of  power  and  ache — with  imposthumes 
And  manias  usual  to  the  race.     Howbeit 
I  dare  not :  'tis  too  easy  to  go  mad, 
And  ape  a  Bourbon  in  a  crown  of  straws  ; 
The  thing's  too  common. 

Many  fervent  souls 
Strike  rhyme    on  rhyme,   who  would  strike  steel  on 

steel 
If  steel  had  offered,  in  a  restless  heat 
Of  doing  something.     Many  tender  souls 
Have  strung  their  losses  on  a  rhj-ming  thread. 
A.S  children,  cowslips : — the  more  pains  they  tiike, 


AURORA     LEIGH.  19V 

FLe  work  more  withers.     Young  men,  ay,  and  maids, 
Too  often  sow  their  wild  oats  in  tame  verse, 
Before  they  sit  down  umler  thfir  own  vine 
And  live  for  use.     Alas,  near  all  the  birds 
V/ill  sing  at  dawn — and  yet  we  do  not  take 
The  challering  swallow  for  the  holy  lark. 

LtLjjKise_da3'S,  though,  I  never  analyzed 

Myself  even.     All  analysis  eomes  lat£.  j 

You  catch  a  sioht  of  Nature,  earliest,  I 

In  full  front  sun-face,  and  your  e3'elids  wink 

And  drop  before  the  wonder  oft;  you  miss  ' 

The  form,  through   seeing  the  light.     I   lived,  thosa 

And  wrote  because  I  lived — unlicensed  else: 

My  heart  beat  in  my  brain.     Life's  violent  flood 

Abolished  bounds — and,  which  my  neighbor's  field, 

Which  mine,  what  mattered  ?     It  is  so  in  3outh. 

"We  play  at  leap-frog  over  the  god  Term  ; 

The  love  witliin  us  and  the  love  without 

Are  mixed,  confounded  ;  if  we  are  loved  or  love, 

We  scarce  distinguish.      So,  with  other  power. 

Being  acted  on  and  acting  seem  the  same  : 

In  that  first  onrush  of  life's  chariot-wheels, 

We  know  not  if  the  forests  move  or  we. 

And  so,  like  most  young  poets,  in  a  flush 

Of  individual  life,  I  poured  myself 

Along  the  veins  of  others,  and  achieved 

Mere  lifeless  imitations  of  life  verse, 

And  made  the  living  answer  for  the  dead. 

Profaning  nature.     "  Touch  not,  do  not  taste, 

Nor  handle," — we're  too  legal,  who  write  young: 

We  beat  the  phorminx  till  we  hurt  our  thumbs. 

As  if  still  ignorant  of  counterpoint  ; 

We  call  the  Muse  .  .  "  O  Muse,  benignant  Muse!  "— i 

As  if  we  had  seen  her  purple-braided  head 

With  the  eyes  in  it  start  between  the  boughs 

As  often  as  a  stag's.     What  make-believe, 

With  so  much  earnest !  what  effete  results. 

From  virile  efforts!  what  cold  wire-drawn  odes. 

From  such  white  heats  ! — bucolics,  where  the  cows 

Would  scare  the  writer  if  they  splashed  th<^  mud 

In  lashing  off  the  flies — didactics,  driven 

Against  the  heels  of  what  the  master  said  ; 

And  counterfeiting  epics,  shrill  with  trumps 


198  AURORA     LEIGH. 

A  babe  might  blow  between  two  sti-aining  cheeks 
Of  bubbled  rose,  to  make  his  mother  laugh  ; 
And  elegiac  griefs,  and  songs  of  love, 
Like  cast-ofl'  nosegays  picked  up  on  the  road, 
The  worse  f c  r  being  warm  :  all  these  things,  writ 
On  hai)py  mornings,  with  a  morning  heart, 
That  leaps  for  love,  is  active  for  resolve. 
Weak  for  art  only.     Oft,  the  ancient  forms 
Will  thrill,  indeed,  in  carrying  the  young  blood. 
The  wine-skins,  now  and  then,  a  little  warped. 
Will  crack  even,  as  the  uev/  wine  gurgles  in. 
Spare  the  old  bottles! — spill  not  the  new  wine. 

B}^  Keats's  soul,  the  man  Avho  never  stepped 
In  gradual  progress  like  another  man. 
But,  turning  grandly  on  his  central  self. 
Ensphered  himself  in  twenty  perfect  3ears 
And  died,  not  3'oung — (the  life  of  a  long  Hfe^ 
Distilled  to  a  mere  drop,  falling  like  a  tear 
Upon  the  world's  cold  cheek  to  make  it  burn 
For  ever ;)  by  that  strong  excepted  soul, 
1  count  it  strange,  and  hard  to  understand. 
That  nearl}'  all  young  poets  should  write  old  ; 
That  Pope  was  sexagenarian  at  sixteen, 
And  beardless  Byron  academical, 
And  so  with  others.     It  ma}'  be,  perhaps, 
Such  have  not  settled  long  and  deep  enough 
In  trance,  to  attain  to  clairvoyance — and  still 
The  memory  mixes  with  the  vision,  spoils. 
And  works  it  turbid. 

Or  perhaps,  again 
In  order  to  discover  the  Muse-Sphinx, 
The  melanchol}'  desert  must  sweep  round, 
Behind  you,  as  before.— 

For  me,  I  wrote 
False  poems,  like  the  rest,  and  thought  them  true, 
Because  myself  was  true  in  writing  them. 
I,  peradventure,  have  writ  true  ones  since 
With  less  complacence. 

But,  J  could  not  hide 
My  quickening  inner  life  from  those  at  watch. 
They  saw  a  light  at  a  window  now  and  then. 
They  had  not  set  there.     AVho  had  set  it  there  ? 
M}'  father's  sister  started  when  she  caught 
My  soul  agaze  in  my  ejes.     She  could  not  say 
I  had  no  business  with  a  sort  of  soul, 


AURORA     LEI  a  II.  19!' 

Hut  plainlj'  she  objected — and  demurred, 

That  souls. were  dangerous  things  to  carry  straiglit 

Through  all  the  S[)ilt  saltpetre  of  the  world. 

She  said  sometimes,  "  Aurora,  have  you  done 

Your  task  this  morninu'  ?— have  you  read  that  book 

And  are  you  ready  for  the  crochet  here  ?" — 

As  if  she  said,  "  1  know  there's  something  wrong  ; 

I  know  1  have  not  ground  you  down  enough 

To  flatten  and  bake  3'ou  to  a  wholesome  crust 

For  househohl  uses  and  proprieties. 

Before  the  rain  has  got  into  my  barn 

And  set  the  grains  a-sprouting.     What,  j'ou're  green 

With  out-door  impudence?  3'ou  almost  grow?" 

To  which  I  answered,  "  Would  she  hear  my  task, 

And  verify  my  abstract  of  the  book? 

And  should  1  sit  down  to  the  crochet  work? 

Was  such  her  pleasure  ?"  .  .  Then  I  sat  and  teased 

The  patient  needle  till  it  spilt  the  thread, 

AVhich  oozed  off  from  it  in  meandering  lace 

From  hour  to  hour.     I  was  not,  therefore,  sad  ; 

j\Iy  soul  was  singing  at  a  work  apart 

Behind  the  wall  of  sense,  as  safe  from  harm 

As  sings  the  lark  when  sucked  up  out  of  sight, 

In  vortices  of  glory  and  blue  air. 

And  so,  through  forced  work  and  spontaneous  work, 

The  inner  life  informed  the  outer  life. 

Reduced  the  irregular  blood  to  settled  rhythms, 

Made  cool  the  forehead  with  fresh-sprinkling  dreams, 

And,  rounding  to  the  spheric  soul  the  thin 

Pined  body,  struck  a  color  up  the  cheeks, 

Though  somewhat  faint.     I  clenched  by  brows  across 

My  blue  eyes  greatening  in  the  looking-glass. 

And  said,  "  We'll  live,  Auroral  we'll  be  strong. 

The  dogs  are  on  us — but  we  will  not  die." 

Whoever  lives  true  life,  will  love  true  love. 
I  learnt  to  love  that  England.     Very  oft. 
Before  the  day  was  born,  or  otherwise 
Through  secret  windings  of  the  afternoons, 
1  threw  my  hunters  off  and  plunged  myself 
Among  the  deep  hills,  as  a  hunted  stag 
Will  take  the  waters,  shivering  with  the  fear 
And  passion  of  the  course.     And  when,  at  last 
Escaped — so  many  a  green  slope  built  on  sloixj 


200  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Retwixt  me  and  the  enem3-'s  house  behind, 
1  dared  to  rest,  or  wander — like  a  rest 
Made  sweeter  for  tlie  step  upon  the  grass — 
And  view  the  ground's  most  gentle  dimplement, 
(As  if  God's  finger  touched  but  did  not  press 
In  making  England  !)  such  an  up  and  down 
Of  verdure — nothing  too  much  up  or  down, 
A  ripple  of  land  ;  such  little  hills,  the  sk^^ 
Can  stoop  to  tenderly  and  the  wheatfields  climb ; 
Such  nooks  of  valleys,  lined  with  orchises, 
Fed  full  of  noises  by  invisible  streams  ; 
And  open  pastures,  where  you  scarcely  tell 
White  daises  from  white  dew — at  intervals 
The  mj'thic  oaks  and  elm-trees  standing  out 
Self-poised  upon  their  prodigy  of  shade — 
I  tliought  m}'  father's  land  was  worth}'  too 
Of  being  my  Sliakspeare's. 

Yery  oft  alone, 
Unlicensed  ;  not  unfrequentlj'  witli  leave 
To  walk  the  third  with  Romney  and  his  friend 
The  rising  painter,  Vincent  Carringlon, 
Whom  men  judge  hardly,  as  bee-bonuetted, 
Because  he  holds  that,  paint  a  body  well, 
You  paint  a  soul  b}'  implication,  like 
The  grand  first  Master.     Pleasant  walks  !  for  if 
He  said  .  .  "  When  1  was  last  in  Italy"  .  . 
It  sounded  as  an  instrument  that's  played 
Too  far  off  for  the  tune — and  yet  it's  tine 
To  listen. 

Ofter  we  walked  onl}'  two, 
If  cousin  Romney  pleased  to  walk  with  me. 
We  read,  or  talked,  or  quarrelled,  as  it  chanced  : 
AVe  were  not  lovers,  nor  even  friends  well-matched-- 
Sa}'  rather,  scholars  upon  different  tracks, 
And  thinkers  disajroed  ;  he,  overfull 
Of  what  is,  and  I,  haply,  overbold 
For  what  might  be. 

But  then  the  thrushes  sang, 
And  shoqk  my  pulses  and  the  elms'  new  leaves— 
And  then  I  turned,  and  held  my  finger  up. 
And  bade  him  mark  that,  howsoe'er  the  world 
Went  ill,  as  he  related,  certainly 
The  thrushes  still  sang  in  it. — At  which  word 
His  brow  would  soften — and  he  bore  with  me 
In  melancholy  patience,  not  unkind, 
While,  breaking  into  voluble  ecstasy. 


AURORA      LEIOH.  201 

I  fla  ,tercd  all  the  beauteous  eountr}-  round, 
As  poets  use  .  .  the  skies,  tlie  clouds,  the  fields, 
The  hai)py  violets  hiding  from  tlie  roads 
The  primroses  run  down  to,  carrying  gold  — 
The  tangled  liedgerows,  where  the  cows  push  out 
Impatient  horns  and  tolerant  churning  mouths 
'Twixt  drii)ping  ash-boughs — hedgerows  all  alive 
With  birds  and  gnats  and  hirge  white  butterflies 
Which  look  as  if  tlie  May-flower  had  sought  life 
And  palpitated  forth  upon  tlie  wind — 
Hills,  vales,  woods,  netted  in  a  silver  mist, 
Farms,  granges,  doubled  up  among  the  hills, 
And  cattle  grazing  in  the  watei'cd  vales, 
And  cottage-chimneys  smoking  from  the  woods 
And  cottage-gardens  smelling  everywhere,  > 

Confused  with  smell  of  orchards.     "  See,"  I  saicC 
"And  seel  is  God  not  with  us  on  the  earth? 
And  shall  we  put  Him  down  by  aught  we  do  ? 
Who  says  there's  nothing  for  the  poor  and  vile 
Save  poverty'  and  wickedness  ?  behold  !" 
And  ankle-deep  in  English  grass  I  leaped, 
And  clapped  my  hands,  and  called  all  veiy  fair 

In  the  beginning  when  God  called  all  good. 
Even  then,  was  evil  near  us,  it  is  writ. 
But  we,  indeed,  who  call  things  good  and  fair, 
The  evil  is  upon  us  while  we  speak; 
Deliver  us  from  evil,  let  us  pray. 


SECOND  BOOK. 

Times  followed  one  another.     Came  a  morn 

I  stood  upon  the  brink  of  twenty  years, 

And  looked  before  and  after,  as  I  stood 

Woman  and  artist — either  incomplete, 

Both  credulous  of  completion.     There  I  held 

The  whole  creation  in  my  little  cup. 

And  smiled  with  thirsty  lips  before  I  drank, 

"  Good  health  to  you  and  me,  sweet  neighbor  mine 

And  all  these  peoples.'' 

I  was  glad  that  day  ;    ) 
The  June  was  in  me,  with  its  multitudes 
Of  nightingahjs  all  singing  in  the  dark. 
And  rosebuds  reddening  where  the  calyx  split. 
54 


202  AURORA     LEIGH. 

(l  felt  SO  young,  so  strong,  so  sure  of  God  ! 
■■'  So  glad,  I  could  not  choose  be  very  wise  I 
'And,  old  at  twenty,  was  inclined  to  pnll 
My  childhood  baclcward  in  a  childish  jest 
To  see  the  face  oft  once  more,  and  farewell! 
Jn  which  fantastic  mood  I  bounded  forth 
At  early  morning — would  not  wait  so  long 
As  even  to  snatch  my  bonnet  by  the  strings, 
But,  brushing  a  green  trail  across  the  lawn 
With  my  gown  in  the  dew,  took  will  and  way 
Among  the  acacias  of  the  shrubberies. 
To  fly  my  fancies  in  the  open  air 
And  keep  my  birtlulay,  till  ray  aunt  awoke 
To  stop  good  dreams.     Meanwhile  I  murmured  on, 
As  hone3'ed  bees  keep  humming  to  themselves; 

The  worthiest  poets  have  .remained  uncrowned 
Till  death  has  bleached  their  foreheads  to  the  bone, 
And  so  with  me  it  must  be,  unless  I  prove 
Unworthy  of  the  grand  adversity — 
And  certainly  I  would  not  fail  so  much. 
What,  therefore,  if  I  crown  myself  to-day 
In  sport,  not  pride,  to  learn  the  feel  of  it, 
Before  m3'  brows  be  numb  as  Hante's  own 
To  all  the  tender  pricking  of  such  leaves? 
Such  leaves  ?  what  leaves  ?" 

I  pulled  the  branches  down, 
To  choose  from. 

"  Not  the  bay  !  I  choose  no  bay! 
The  fates  deny  us  if  we  are  overbold  : 
Nor  myrtle — which  means  chiefly  love  ;  and  love 
Is  something  awful  which  one  dare  not  touch 
So  early  o'  mornings.     This  verbena  strains 
The  point  of  passionate  fragrance  ;  and  hard  by, 
This  guelder  rose,  at  far  too  slight  a  beck 
Of  the  wind,  will  toss  about  her  flower-apples. 
Ah — there's  my  choice — that  'wy  on  the  wall, 
That  headlong  ivy  !  not  a  leaf  will  grow 
But   thinking   of    a   wreath.     Large    leaves,    smootb 

leaves, 
Serrated  like  my  vines,  and  half  as  green. 
I  like  such  ivy  ;  bold  to  leap  a  height 
'Twas  strong  to  climb !  as  good  to  grow  on  graves 
As  twist  about  a  thyrsus;  pretty  too, 
(And  that's  not  ill)  when  twisted  round  a  comb." 
Thus  speaking  to  myself,  half  singing  it. 


••  I  stood  there  fixed — 
My  arms  up,  like  tlie  coryatid,  sole 
Of  some  abolished  temple." 


AUK  OR  A      LEIGH.  OQg 

Because  some  tliouglits  aro  fashioned  like  a  l)ell 
To  ring  with  once  l)eing  touched,  I  drew  a  wreath, 
Drenched,  blinding  rae  with  dew,  across  my  brow, 
And  fastening  it  beliind  so,   .  .  turning  faced 

.  My  public  ! — Cousin  Komney — with  a  mouth 
Twice  graver  than  his  e^'es. 

T  stood  there  fixed — 
My  arms  up,  like  the  caryatid,  sole 
Of  some  abolished  temple,  helplessly 
Persistent  in  a  gesture  which  derides 
A  former  purpose.     Yet  my  blush  was  flame. 
As  if  from  flax,  not  stone. 

"  Aurora  Leigh, 
The  earliest  of  Aurora's  !" 

Hand  stretched  out 
1  clasped,  as  shipwrecked  men  will  clasp  a  hand, 
Indifferent  to  the  sort  of  palm.     The  tide 
Had  caught  me  at  my  pastime,  writing  down 
My  foolish  name  too  near  upon  the  sea 
Which  drowned  me  with  a  blush  as  foolish.     "You, 
My  cousin  !" 

The  smile  died  out  in  his  03-65 
And  dropped  upon  his  lips,  a  cold  dead  weight. 
For  just  a  moment  .  .  "  Here's  a  book,  I  found  ! 
No  name  writ  on  it — poems,  by  the  form  ; 
Some  Greek  upon  the  margin — lady's  Greek, 
Without  the  accents.     Read  it  ?     Not  a  word. 
I  saw  at  once  the  thing  had  witchcraft  in't. 
Whereof  the  reading  calls  up  dangerous  spirits ; 
I  rather  bring  it  to  the  witch." 

"  My  book ! 
You  found  it."  .  . 

"  In  the  hollow  by  the  stream, 
That  beach  leans  down  into — of  which  you  said. 
The  Oread  in  it  has  a  Naiad's  heart 
And  pines  for  waters." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  Rather  you 
My  cousin  !  that  I  have  seen  jj-qu  not  too  much 
A  witch,  a  poet,  scholar,  and  the  rest. 
To  be  a  woman  also." 

With  a  glance 
The  smile  rose  in  his  eyes  again,  and  touched 
The  ivy  on  my  foreliead,  light  as  air. 
I  answered  gravely,  "  Poets  needs  must  be 
Or  men  or  women — more's  the  pity." 


204  AURORA     LEIGH 

"Ah, 
But  men,  and  still  less  women,  happily, 
Scarce  need  be  poets.     Keep  to  the  green  wreath, 
Since  even  dreaming  of  the  stone  and  bronze 
Brings  headaches,  pretty  cousin,  and  defiles 
The  clean  white  morning  dresses." 

"  So  you  ju(Jge! 
Because  I  love  the  beautiful,  I  must 
Love  pleasure  chiefly,  and  be  overcharged 
For  ease  and  whiteness  !     Well — 3'ou  know  the  world, 
And  only  miss  your  cousin  ;  'tis  not  much  ! — 
But  learn  this :  I  would  rather  take  mj'  part 
With  God's  Dead,  who  afford  to  walk  in  white 
Yet  spread  his  glor3%  than  keep  quiet  here. 
And  gather  up  my  feet  from  even  a  step, 
For  fear  to  soil  my  gown  in  so  much  dust. 
I  choose  to  walk  at  all  risks. — Here,  if  heads 
That  hold  a  rhj'mthic  thought,  must  ache  perforce, 
For  my  part,  I  choose  headaches — and  to-day's 
My  birthday." 

"  Dear  Aurora  choose  instead 
To  cure  such.     You  have  balsams  " 

"  I  perceive  1- — 
The  headache  is  too  noble  for  my  s^.x. 
You  tliink  the  heartache  would  sound  decenter, 
Since  that's  the  woman's  special,  proper  ache, 
And  altogether  tolerable,  except 
To  a  woman." 

Saying  which,  I  loosed  pi;^-  wreath, 
And,  swinging  it  beside  me  as  I  walked. 
Half  petulant,  half  playful,  as  we  walked, 
I  sent  a  sidelong  look  to  find  his  thought — 
As  falcon  set  on  falconer's  finger  may. 
With  sidelong  head,  and  startled,  braving  cn^ 
Which  means,  "  Youli  see — you'll  see  !    ill  so<>»^  <,«»k« 

flight — 
You  shall  not  hinder."     "  He,  as  shaking  out 
His  hand  and  answering  'Fly  then,'  did  not  speak, 
Except  b}^  such  a  gesture.     Silently 
We  paced,  until,  just  coming  into  sight 
Of  the  house-windows,    he  abruptly  caught 
At  one  end  of  the  swinging  wreath,  and  said 
'  Aurora!  '     There  I  stopped  short,  breath  and  all. 

"  Aurora,  let's  be  serious,  and  throw  bj' 

This  game  of  head  and  heart.     Life  means,  be  sure, 

Both  heart  and  head — both  active,  both  complete, 


AURORA     LEIGH 


205 


Alul  both  in  earnest.     Men  and  women  make 

The  wovhi,  as  head  and  heart  make  human  life. 

Work  man,  work  woman,  since  there's  work  to  do 

[n  this  beleagnered  earth,  for  head  and  heart, 

And  thought  can  never  do  the  work  of  love ! 

But  work  for  ends,  I  mean  for  uses  ;  not 

FcT  such  sleek  fringes  (do  you  call  them  ends  ? 

Still  less  God's  glory)  as  we  sew  ourselves 

Upon  the  velvet  of  those  baldaquins 

Held  'twixt  us  and  the  sun.     That  book  of  yours, 

I  have  not  read  a  page  of;  but  1  toss 

A  rose  up — it  falls  calyx  down,  yon  see  1  .  . 

The  chances  are  that,  being  a  woman,  youno-, 

And  pure,  with  such  a  pair  of  large,  calm  eyes,  .  . 

You  write  as  well  .  .  and  ill  .  .  upon  the  whole, 

As  other  women.      If  as  well,  what  then  ? 

If  even  a  little  better,  .  .  still  what  then  ? 

We  want  the  Best  in  art  now,  or  no  art. 

The  time  is  done  for  facile  settings  np 

Of  minnow  gods,  nymphs  here,  and  tritons  there; 

The  pol3'theists  have  gone  out  in  God, 

That  unity  of  Bests.     No  best,  no  God  ! 

And  so  with  art,  we  say.     Give  art's  divine, 

Direct,  indubitable,  real  as  grief — 

Or  leave  us  to  the  grief  we  grow  ourselves 

Divine  by  overcoming  with  mere  hope 

And  most  prosaic  patience.     You,  you  are  vonng 

As  Eve  with  nature's  daybreak  on  her  face  { 

But  this  same  world  you  are  come  to,  dearest  coz, 

Has  done  with  keeping  birthdays,  saves  her  wreaths 

To  hang  upon  her  ruins — and  forgets 

To  rhyme  the  cry  with  which  she  still  beats  back 

Those  savage,  hungry  dogs  that  hunt  her  down 

To    the   empty   grave    of  Christ.     The    world's  hard 

pressed  ; 
The  sweat  of  labor  in  the  early  curse 
Has  (turning  acrid  in  six  thousand  years) 
Become  the  sweat  of  torture.     Who  has  time. 
An  hour's  time  .  .  think  I  .  .  to  sit  upon  a  bank 
And  hear  the  cymbal  tinkle  in  white  hands  ! 
When  Egypt's  slain,  I  say,  let  Miriam  sing  !^ 
Before  .  .  where's  Moses  ?  " 

"  Ah — exactly  that 
Where's  Moses  ?— is  a  Moses  to  be  found  ?— 
You'll  seek  him  vainly  in  the  bulrushes. 
While  I  in  vain  touch  cymbals.     Yet  concede, 
64*  2Q 


206  AURORA     LEIGH, 

Such  scmnfling  brass  has  done  some  actual  good, 
(The  application  in  a  woman's  hand, 
If  that  were  credible,  being  scarcely  spoilt,) 
In  colonizing  beehives." 

"There  it  is?  — 
You  play  beside  a  death-bed  like  a  child, 
Yet  measure  to  yourself  a  prophet's  place 
To  teach  the  living.     None  of  all  these  things. 
Can  women  understand.     You  generalize 
Oh,  nothing  ! — not  even  grief !     Your  quick  breathed 

hearts, 
So  sympathetic  to  the  personal  pang, 
Close  on  each  separate  knife-stroke,  yielding  up 
A  whole  life  at  each  wound  ;  incapable 
Of  deepening,  widening  a  large  lap  of  life 
To  hold  the  world-full  woe.     The  human  race 
To  you  means,  such  a  child,  or  such  a  man. 
You  saw  one  morning   waiting  in  the  cold, 
Beside  that  gate,  perhaps.     You  gather  up 
A  few  such  cases,  and,  when  strong,  sometimes 
Will  write  of  factories  and  of  slares,  as  if 
Your  father  were  a  negro,  and  your  son 
A  spinner  in  the  mills.     All's  yours  and  you — 
All,  colored  with  your  blood,  or  otherwise 
Just  nothing  to  you.     Why,  I  call  you  hard 
To  general  suffering.     Here's  the  world  half  blind 
AVith  intellectual  light,  half  brutalized 
With  civilization,  having  caught  the  plague 
In  silks  from  Tarsus,  shrieking  east  and  west 
Along  a  thousand  railroads,  mad  with  pain 
And  sin  too  !  .  .  does  one  woman  of  you  all, 
(You  who  weep  easily)  grow  pale  to  see 
This  tiger  shake  his  cage  ? — does  one  of  you 
Stand  still  from  dancing,   stop  from  stringing  pea  is 
And  pine  and  die,  because  of  the  great  sum 
Of  universal  anguish  ? — Show  me  a  tear 
Wet  as  Cordelia's,  in  eyes  bright  as  yours, 
Because  the  world  is  mad  ?     You  cannot  count, 
That  you  .should  weep  for  this  account,  not  yon  ! 
You  weep  for  what  you  know.     A  red-haired  child 
Sick  in  a  fever,  if  you  touch  him  once. 
Though  but  so  little  as  with  a  finger-tip. 
Will  set  you  weeping!  but  a  million  sick  . 
Yon  could  as  soon  weep  for  the  rule  of  three, 
Or  compound  fractions.     Therefore,  this  same  woild 
Un comprehended  by  you  must  remain 


AURORA      LEIGH.  201 

Uniuflucnced  by  you.     Women  as  3'ou  are, 

Mere  women,  personal  and  passionate, 

You  give  us  doating  mothers,  and  chaste  wives, 

Sublime  .Madonnas,  and  enduring  saints  ! 

We  get  no  Clirist  from  you — and  verily 

We  shall  not  get  a  poet,  in  m\'  mind." 

"  With  which  conclusion  you  conclude  " 

"But  this— 
That  you  Aurora,  with  the  large  live  brow 
And  steady  eyelids,  cannot  condescend 
To  play  at  art,  as  children  play  at  swords, 
To  show  a  pretty  spirit,  chiefly  admired 
because  true  action  is  impossible. 
You  never  can  be  satisfied  with  praise 
Which  men  give  women  when  they  judge  a  book 
Not  as  mere  work,  but  as  mere  woman's  work, 
Expressing  the  comparative  respect 
Which  means  the  absolute  scorn.     '  Oh,  excellent ! 
What  grace  !  what  facile  turns  !  what  fluent  sweeps  ! 
What  delicate  discernment  .   .  almost  thought ! 
The  book  does  honor  to  the  sex,  we  hold. 
Among  our  female  authors  we  make  100m 
For  this  fair  writer,  and  congratulate 
The  country  that  produces  in  these  times 
Such  women,  competent  to  .  .  spell.'  "' 

"  Stop  there  1' 
I  answered — burning  through  his  thread  of  talk 
With  a  quick  flame  of  emotion — '*  You  have  read 
My  soul,  if  not  ra}'  book,  and  argue  well 
I  would  not  condescend  .  .  we  will  not  say 
To  such  a  kind  of  praise,  (a  worthless  end 
Js  praise  of  all  kinds)  but  to  such  a  use 
Of  hol}^  art  and  golden  life.     I  am  3'oung, 
And  peradventure  weak — you  tell  me  so — 
Through  being  a  woman.     And,  for  all  the  rest, 
Take  thanks  (or  justice.     I  would  rather  dance 
At  fairs  on  tight-rope,  till  the  babies  dropped 
Their  gingerbread  for  joy — than  shift  the  types 
For  tolerable  verse,  intolerable 
To  men  who  act  and  suffer.     Better  far, 
Pursue  a  frivolous  trade  b}'  serious  means, 
Than  a  sublime  art  frivolousl}-." 

"You, 
Choose  nobler  work  than  either,  0  moist  eyes. 
And  hurrying  lips,  and  heaving  heart?  We  are  young 


208  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Aurora,  you  and  I.     The  world  .  .  look  round  .  . 

The  world,  we're  come  to  late,  is  swollen  hard 

With  perished  generations  and  their  sins : 

The  civilizei's  spade  grinds  horribly 

On  dead  men's  bones,  and  cannot  turn  up  soil 

That's  otherwise  than  fetid.     All  success 

Proves  partial  failure  ;  all  advance  implies 

What's  left  behind  ;  all  triumph,  something  crushed 

At  the  chariot-wheels;  all  government,  some  wronc: 

And  rich  men  make  the  poor,  who  curse  the  rich, 

Who  agonize  together,  rich  and  poor, 

Under  and  over,  in  the  social  spasm 

And  crisis  of  the  ages.     Here's  an  age, 

That  makes  its  own  vocation  !  here,  we  have  stepped 

Across  the  bounds  of  time  !  here's  nought  to  see, 

But  just  the  rich  man  and  just  Lazarus, 

And  both  in  torments  ;  witli  a  mediate  gulf. 

Though  not  a  hint  of  Abraham's  bosom.     Who, 

Being  man  and  human,  can  stand  calmly  by 

And  view  these  things,  and  never  tease  his  soul 

For  some  great  cure  ?     No  physic  for  this  grief. 

In  all  the  earth  and  heavens  too?" 

"  You  believe 
In   God  for  your  part? — ay?  that  He  who  makes, 
Can  make  good   things    fioin    ill    things,   best    from 
worst, 

As  men  plant  tulips  upon  dunghills  when 

They  wish  them  finest  ?" 

"  True.     A  death-heat  is 

The  same  as  life-heat,  to  be  accurate  ; 

And  in  all  nature  is  no  death  at  all, 

As  men  account  of  death,  as  long  as  God 

Stands  witnessing  for  life  perpetually, 

By  being  just  God.     That's  abstract  truth,  I  know, 

Philosophy,  or  sympathy  with  God  : 

But  I,  I  sympathize  with  man,  not  God, 

1  think  I  was  a  man  for  chiefly  this  ; 

And  when  I  stand  beside  a  dying  bed, 

It's  death  to  me.     Observe— it  had  not  much 

Consoled  the  race  of  mastodons  to  know- 
Before  they  went  to  fossil,  that  anon 

Their  place  should  quicken  with  the  elephant; 

They  were  not  elephants  but  mastodons: 

And  I,  a  man,  as  men  are  now,  and  not 

As  men  may  be  hereafter,  feel  with  mea 

lu  the  agonizing  present." 


AURORA     LEIGH.  209 

"  Is  it  SO," 
I  said,  "my  cousin  ?  is  the  world  so  bad, 
While  I  hear  nothing  of  it  through  the  trees? 
The  world  was  always  evil — but  so  bad  ?" 

"  So  bad,  Aurora.     Dear,  my  soul  is  grey 

With  poring  over  the  long  sum  of  ill ; 

So  much  for  vice,  so  much  for  discontent, 

So  much  for  the  necessities  of  power, 

So  much  for  thj  connivances  of  fear — 

Coherent  in  statistical  despairs 

With  such  a  total  of  distracted  life,  .  . 

To  see  it  down  in  figures  on  a  page, 

Plain^^silent^ Clear  .   .  as  God  sees  through  the  earth 

The  sense  of  all  the  graves  !  .  .  .  that's  terrible 

For  one  who  is  not  God,  and  cannot  right  , 

The  wrong  he  looks  on.     May  I  choose  indeed 

But  vow  away  my  years,  my  means,  my  aims. 

Among  the  helpers,  if  there's  an}'  help 

In  such  a  social  strait  ?     The  common  blood 

That  swings  along  my  veins,  is  strong  enough 

To  draw  me  to  this  duty." 

Then  I  spoke. 
"  I  have  not  stood  long  on  the  straad  of  life, 
And  these  salt  waters  liave  had  sea  reel}'  time 
To  creep  so  high  up  as  to  wet  my  fe»H. 
I  cannot  judge  these  tides — I  shall,  perhaps. 
/A  woman's  alwaj's  j^ounger  than  a  m.m 
*At  equal  years,  because  she  is  disallovved 
Maturing  by  the  out-door  sun  and  air. 
And  kept  in  long-clothes  past  the  age  to  walk. 
Ah  well,  I  know  you  men  judge  otherwise  1 
You  think  a  woman  ripens  as  a  peach — 
In  the  cheeks,  chiefly.     Pass  it  to  me  now; 
I'm  young  in  age,  and  younger  still,  I  think, 
As  a  woman.     But  a  child  may  say  ameii 
To  a  bishop's  prayer  and  see  the  way  it  goes  ; 
And  I,  incapable  to  loose  the  knot 
Of  social  questions,  can  approve,  applaud 
August  compassion.  Christian  thoughts  that  shoot 
Beyond  the  vulgar  white  of  personal  aims. 
Accept  my  reverence." 

There  he  glowed  on  me 
"With  all  his  face  and  eyes.     "  No  other  help  ?" 
Said  he — "  no  more  than  so  ?" 

"  What  help  ?"  I  asked 
*  You'd  sjcoin  my  help — as  Nature's  self,  you  say, 


+ 


210  AURORA     LEIGH. 

U&r,  scorned  to  put  her  music  in  my  mouth, 
Because  a  woman's.     Doj'ou  now  turn  round 
And  ask  for  what  a  woman  cannot  give  ?" 

"  For  what  she  only  can,  I  turn  and  ask," 
He  answered,  catching  up  my  hands  in  his. 
And  dropping  on  me  from  his  higli-eaved  brow 
The  full  weight  of  his  soul — "  I  ask  for  love, 
And  that,  she  can  ;  for  life  in  fellowship 
Through  bitter  duties — that,  I  know  she  can  ; 
For  wifehood  .  .  will  she?" 

"  Now,"  I  said,  "  may  Gc»d, 
Be  witness  'twixt  us  two!"  and  with  the  word 
Meseemed  I  floated  into  a  sudden  light 
Above  his  stature — "am  I  proved  too  weak 
To  stand  alone,  3'et  strong  enough  to  bear 
/Such  leaners  on  my  shoulder  ?  poor  to  think, 
■Y'et  rich  enough  to  sjuiipathize  witli  thought  ? 
ncompetent  to  sing,  as  blackbirds  can, 
Xet  competent  to  love,  like  him  ?" 

I  paused; 
Perhaps  I  darkened,  as  the  light-house  will 
That  turns  upon  the  sea.     "  It's  always  so  ! 
Anything  does  for  a  wife." 

"  Aurora,  dear, 
And  dearly  honored  "  .  .  he  pressed  in  at  once 
With  eager  utterance — "you  translate  me  ill. 
I  do  not  contradict  my  thought  of  you 
Whicli  is  most  reverent,  with  another  thought 
Found  less  so.     If  your  sex  is  weak  for  art, 
(And  I  who  said  so,  did  but  honor  3'ou 
By  using  truth  in  courtsliip)  it  is  stronjij 
For  life  and  duty.     Place  your  fecund  heart 
In  mine,  and  let  us  blossom  for  the  world 
That  wants  love's  color  in  the  grey  of  time. 
With  all  m}^  talk  I  can  but  set  you  where 
You  look  down  coldly  on  the  arena-heaps 
Of  1  cadless  bodies,  shapeless,  indistinct  ! 
The  Judgment-Angel  scarce  would  find  his  way 
Through  such  a  heap  of  generalized  distress, 
To  tiie  individual  man  with  lips  and  e^es — 
Much  less  Aurora.     Ah,  my  sweet,  come  down. 
And,  hand  in  hand,  we'll  go  where  .yours  shall  toucb 
These  victims,  one  by  one  !  till  one  by  one, 
The  formless,  nameless  trunk  of  every  man 
Shall  seem  to  wear  a  head,  with  hair  you  know, 


AUROHA     LEIGH.  211 

And  every  woman  catch  your  mother's  face 
To  melt  you  into  passion." 

"  I  am  a  girl," 
I  answei-ed  slowly  ;  "  you  do  well  to  name 
M}-  mother's  face.     Though  far  too  early,  alas 
God's  hand  did  interpose  'twixt  it  and  me, 
I  know  so  much  of  love,  as  used  to  shine 
In  tliat  face  and  another.     Just  so  much  ; 
No  more  indeed  at  all.     I  have  not  seen 
So  much  love  since,  I  pray  you  pardon  me. 
As  answers  even  to  make  a  marriage  with, 
In  this  cold  land  of  England.     What  3'ou  love, 
Is  not  a  woman,  Romne^',  but  a  cause  : 
You  want  a  helpmate,  not  a  mistress,  sir — 
A  wife  to  help  your  ends  .  .  in  her  no  end  ! 
Your  cause  is  noble,  your  ends  excellent, 
But  I,  being  most  unworthy  of  these  and  that, 
Do  otherwise  conceive  of  love.     Farewell." 

"  Farewell,  Aurora,  you  reject  me  thus  ?" 
He  said. 

"  Why,  sir,  you  are  married  long  ago. 
You  have  a  wife  already  whom  you  love, 
Your  social  theory.     Bless  you  both,  I  say. 
For  my  part,  I  am  scarcely  meek  enough 
To  be  the  handmaid  of  a  lawful  spouse. 
Do  I  look  a  Hagar,  th'uk  you  ?" 

"  So,  3^ou  jest  I" 

"  Xay  so,  I  speak  in  earnest,"  I  replied. 
"  Y''ou  treat  of  marriage  too  much  like,  at  least, 
A  chief  apostle  ;  you  would  bear  with  you 
A  wife  .  .  a  sister  .  .  shall  we  speak  it  out  ? 
A  sister  of  charity." 

"  Then,  must  it  be 
Indeed  farewell  ?     And  was  I  so  far  wrong 
In  hope  and  in  illusion,  when  I  took 
The  woman  to  be  nobler  than  the  man, 
Y'ourself  the  noblest  woman — in  the  use 
And  comprehension  of  what  love  is — love, 
Tliat  generates  the  likeness  of  itself 
Through  all  heroic  duties  ?  so  far  wrong 
In  saying  bluntly,  venturing  truth  on  love, 
'  Come,  human  creature,  love  and  work  with  me  '— 
Instead  of,  '  Lad^^,  thou  art  wondrous  fair. 
And,  where  the  Graces  walk  before,  the  Muse 


212  AURORA      LEIOH. 

Will  follow  at  the  lighting  of  the  e3'es, 

And  where  the  Muse  walks,  lovers  need  to  creep: 

Turn  round  and  love  me,  or  I  die  of  love.'  " 


^ 


With  quiet  indignation  I  broke  in. 
"  You  misconceive  the  question  like  a  man, 
Who  sees  a  woman  as  the  complement 
Of.  his  sex  merely.     You  forget  too  much 
,    That  every  creature,  female  as  the  male, 
'*'  Stands  single  in  responsible  act  and  thought. 
As  also  in  birth  and  death.     Whoever  says 
To  a  loyal  woman,  '  Love  and  work  with  me,' 
AVill  get  fair  answers,  if  the  work  and  love. 
Being  good  themselves,  are  good  for  her — the  best 
She  was  born  for.     Women  of  a  softer  mood, 
Surprised  by  men  when  scarcely  awake  to  life. 
Will  sometimes  onlj'  hear  the  first  word,  love. 
And  catch  up  with  it  any  kind  of  work. 
Indifferent,  so  that  dear  love  go  with  it: 
I  do  not  bla:ne  such  women,  though,  for  love, 
They  pick  much  oakum  ;  earth's  fanatics  make 
Too  frequently  heaven's  saints.    ^But  me,  jouv  work 
Is  not  the  best  for — nor  your  love  tlie  best, 
Nor  able  to  commend  the  kind  of  work 
For  love's  sake  merely.     Ah,  you  force  me,  sir. 
To  be  over-bold  in  speaking  of  myself — 
I,  too,  have  my  vocation — work  to  do, 
The  heavens  and  earth  have  set  me,  since  I  changed 
My  father's  face  for  theirs — and,  though  your  world 
Were  twice  as  wretched  as  you  represent, 
Most  serious  work,  most  necessar3-  work, 
As  any  of  the  economists.     Reform, 
Make  trade  a  Christian  possibility. 
And  individual  right  no  general  wrong 
AVipe  out  earth's  furrows  of  the  Thine  and  Mine, 
And  leave  one  green,  for  men  to  play  at  bowls ; 
AVith  innings  for  them  all !  .  .  what  then,  indeed, 
If  mortals  were  not  greater  by  the  head 
Than  any  of  their  prosperities  ?  what  then, 
Unless  the  artist  keep  up  open  roads 
Betwixt  the  seen  and  unseen — ^bursting  through 
The  best  of  your  conventions  with  his  best, 
The  unspeakable,  imaginable  best 
God  bids  him  speak,  to  prove  what  lies  beyond 
Both  speech  and  imagination  ?     A  starved  man 
Exceeds  a  fat  beast :  we'll  not  barter,  sir. 


AURORA     LEIGH.  213 

The  beautiful  for  barley. — And,  even  so, 

i  liold  you  will  not  couii)ass  j'our  poor  ends 

Of  barloy-fi-eding  and  n)aterial  ease, 

Without  a  poet's  individualism 

To  work  your  universal.     It  takes  a  soul, 

To  move  a  body  :  it  takes  a  high  souled  man, 

To  move  the  masses  .   .  even  to  a  cleaner  stye  : 

Jt  takes  the  ideal,  to  blow  a  hair's  breadth  off 

The  dust  of  the  actual. — Ah,  3'our  Fouriers  failed, 

Because  not  poets  enough  to  understand 

That  life  develops  from  within. For  me, 

Perhaps  I  am  not  worthy,  as  you  sa3% 
Of  work  like  this!  .  .  perhaps  a  woman's  soul 
Asi)ires,  and  not  creates  !  3'et  we  aspire, 
And  yet  I'll  try  out  your  perhapses,  sir; 
And  if  I  fail  .  .  why,  burn  me  up  my  straw 
Like  other  false  works — I'll  not  ask  for  grace, 
Your  scorn  is  better,  cousin  llomne}'.     I 
Who  love  my  art,  would  never  wish  it  lower 
To  suit  my  stature.      I  ma}'  love  my  art. 
You'll  grant  that  even  a  woman  maj'  love  art, 
Seeing  that  to  waste  true  love  on  anything. 
Is  womanly,  past  question." 

I  retain 
The  very  last  word  which  I  said,  that  day, 
.As  you  the  creaking  of  the  door,  years  past, 
AVhich  let  upon  3'ou  such  disabling  news 
You  ever  after  have  been  graver.     He, 
llis  e3'es,  the  motions  in  his  silent  mouth. 
Were  fiery  points  on  which  my  words  were  caught, 
Transfixed  for  ever  in  ni}'  memory 
For  his  sake,  not  their  own.     And  3'et  I  know 
I  did  not  love  him  .  .  nor  he  me  .  .  that's  sure  .  . 
And  what  I  said,  is  unrepented  of. 
As  trutii  is  always.     Yet  .  .  a  princely'  man  ! — 
If  hard  to  me,  heroic  for  himself! 
He  bears  down  on  me  through  the  slanting  years, 
The  stronger  for  the  distance.     If  he  had  loved, 
Ay,  loved  me,  with  that  retributive  face,  .  . 
I  might  have  been  a  common  woman  now, 
And  happier,  less  known  and  less  left  alone; 
Perhaps  a  better  woman  after  all — 
Witli  chubby  children  hanging  on  my  neck 
To  keep  me  low  and  wise.     Ah  me,  the  vines 
That  bear  such  fruit,  are  proud  to  stoop  with  it. 
The  palm  stands  upright  in  a  realm  of  sand. 


214  AURORA     LEIGH. 

And  1,  who  spcke  the  truth  then,  stand  upright, 
Still  worthy  of  having  spoken  out  the  truth, 
By  being  content  I  spoke  it,  though  it  set 
Him  there,  me  here. — 0  woman's  vile  remorse, 
To  hanker  after  a  mere  name,  a  show, 
A  supposition,  a  potential  love  ! 
Does  every  man  who  names  love  in  our  lives, 
Become  a  power  for  that?  is  love's  true  thing 
So  mucli  best  to  us,  that  what  personates  love 
Is  next  best  ?     A  potential  love,  forsooth  ! 
"We  are  not  so  vile.     No,  no— he  cleaves,  I  think. 
This  man,  this  image,  .  .  chiefly  for  the  wrong 
And  shock  he  gave  my  life,  in  finding  me 
Precisely  where  the  devil  of  my  youth 
Had  set  me,  on  those  mountain-peaks  of  hope 
All  glittering  with  the  dawn-dew,  all  erect 
And  famished  for  the  morning — saying,  while 
I  looked  for  empire  and  much  tribute,  •'  Come, 
I  have  some  worth}'  work  for  thee  below. 
Come,  sweep  my  barns,  and  keep  my  hospitals — 
And  1  will  pay  thee  with  a  current  coin 
Which  men  give  women." 

As  we  spoke,  the  grass 
Was  trod  in  haste  beside  us,  and  my  aunt, 
With  smile  distorted  b}^  the  sun— face,  voice, 
As  much  at  issue  with  the  summer-day 
As  if  you  brought  a  candle  out  of  doors — 
Broke  in  with,  "  Romney,  here! — My  child,  entreat 
Your  cousin  to  the  house,  and  have  your  talk. 
If  girls  must  talk  upon  their  birthdays.     Come  " 
He  answered  for  me  calmly,  with  pale  lips 
That  seemed  to  motion  for  a  smile  in  vain. 
"The  talk  is  ended,  madam,  ^\'here  we  stand. 
Your  brother's  daughter  has  dismissed  me  here  ; 
And  all  my  answer  can  be  better  said 
Beneath  the  trees,  than  wrong  by  such  a  word 
Your  house's  hospitalities.     Farewell." 

With  that  he  vanished.     I  could  hear  his  heel 
Ring  bluntly  in  the  lane,  as  down  he  leapt 
That  short  way  from  us.— Then,  a  measured  speech 
Withdrew  me.     "What  means  this,  Aurora  Leigh? 
My  brother's  daughter  has  dismissed  my  guests  ?  " 

The  lion  in  me  felt  the  keeper's  voice, 

Through  all  its  quivering  dewlaps  :  I  ^as  quelled 


AURORA     LEIGH.  0^5 

Before  her — meckcned  tx)  the  chihl  sJie  knew  : 
f  prayed  her  pardon,  saii],  "  I  had  little  thought 
To  give  dismissal  to  a  guest  of  hers, 
In  letting  go  a  IViend  of  mine,  who  came 
To  take  nie  into  service  as  a  wife — 
2^0  more  than  that,  indeed." 

"  No  more,  Jio  more  ? 
Tray  heaven,"  she  answered,  "tliat  1  was  not  mad. 
1  eoidd  not  mean  to  tell  her  to  her  face 
That  Romney  Leigh  had  asked  nie  for  a  wife, 
And  I  refused  him  ?  " 

"Did  he  ask  ?  "  I  said  ; 
"  I  think  he  rather  stooped  to  take  me  up 
For  certain  uses  which  he  found  to  do 
For  something  called  a  wife.     He  never  asked." 

"  What  stuff!  "  she  answered  ;  "  are  thc^'  queens,  these 

girls  ? 
They  must  have  mantles,  stitched  with  twenty  silks 
Spread  out  upon  the  ground,  before  tliey'U  step 
One  footstep  for  the  noblest  lover  born." 

"  But  I  am  born,"  I  said  with  firmness,  "  I, 
To  walk  another  wa}^  than  his,  dear  aunt." 

"  You  walk,  you  walk  !  A  babe  at  thirteen  months 
Will  walk  as  well  as  you,"  she  cried  in  haste, 
"  Without  a  steadying  finger.     Why,  you  child, 
God  help  you,  you  are  groping  in  the  dark, 
For  all  this  sunlight.     You  suppose,  perhaps. 
That  3'ou,  sole  offspring  of  an  opulent  man. 
Are  rich  and  free  to  choose  a  way  to  walk  ? 
You  think,  and  it's  a  reasonalile  thought, 
That  I  l)esides,  being  well  to  do  in  life, 
AVill  leave  my  handful  in  my  niece's  hand 
When  death  shall  paralyze  these  fingers  ?     Pray, 
Fray,  child — albeit  1  know  you  love  me  not — 
As  if  you  loved  me,  that  I  ma}'^  not  die  ! 
For  when  1  die  and  leave  you,  out  you  go, 
(Unless  I  make  room  for  you  in  my  grave) 
Unhoused,  nnfed,  my  dear,  poor  brother's  lamb, 
(Ah  heaven — that  pains  !) — without  a  right  to  crop 
A  single  blade  of  grass  beneath  these  trees, 
Or  cast  a  lamb's  small  shadow  on  the  lawn, 
Unfed,  unfolded  !     Ah,  my  brother,  here's 
The  fruit  you  planted  in  your  foreign  loves! — 


•21 6'  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Ay,  there's  the  fruit  he  planted!  never  look 

Astonished  at  me  with  your  mother's  e3'es, 

For  it  was  they,  who  set  you  where  you  are, 

An  undowered  orphan.     Child,  your  father's  choice 

Of  that  said  mother,  disinherited 

His  daughter,  liis  and  hers.     Men  do  not  think 

Of  sons  and  daughters,  when  they  fall  in  love, 

So  much  more  than  of  sisters  ;  otherwise, 

lie  would  have  paused  to  ponder  what  he  did, 

And  shrunk  before  that  clause  in  the  entail 

Excluding  offspring  by  a  foreign  wife. 

(The  clause  set  up  a  hundred  years  ago 

63^  a  Leigh  who  wedded  a  French  dancing-girl 

And  had  his  heart  danced  over  in  return.) 

But  this  man  shrunk  at  nothing,  never  thought 

Of  you,  Aurora,  any  more  than  me — 

Your  mother  must  have  been  a  pretty  thing, 

For  all  the  coarse  Italian  blacks  and  browns, 

To  make  a  good  man,  which  my  brother  was, 

Unchar}^  of  tlie  duties  to  his  house  ; 

But  so  it  fell  indeed.     Our  cousin  Vane, 

Vane  Leigh,  the  father  of  this  Romney,  wrote 

Directly  on  your  birth,  to  Ital}--, 

"  I  ask  your  baby  daughter  for  my  son 

In  whom  the  entail  now  merges  by  the  law. 

Betroth  her  to  us  out  of  love,  instead 

Of  colder  reasons,  and  she  shall  not  lose 

By  love  or  law  from  hencefortli" — so  he  wrote; 

A  generous  cousin,  was  my  cousin  Vane. 

Remember  how  he  drew  3'ou  to  his  knee 

The  year  you  came  here,  just  before  he  died, 

And  hollowed  out  his  hands  to  hold  your  cheeks 

And  wished  them  redder — a'ou  remember  Yane  ? 

And  now  his  son  who  represents  our  house 

And  holds  the  fiefs  and  manors  in  his  place, 

To  whom  reverts  my  pittance  when  I  die, 

(Except  a  few  books  and  a  pair  of  shawls) 

The  1)03^  is  generous  like  him,  and  prepared 

To  carr3'  out  his  kindest  word  and  thought 

To  3'ou,  Aurora.     Yes,  a  fine  3'ouiig  man 

Is  Romney  Leigh  ;  although  the  sun  of  youth 

Has  shone  too  straight  upon  his  brain,  I  know, 

And  fevered  him  with  dreams  of  doing  good 

To  good-for-nothing  people.     But  a  wife 

Will  put  all  right,  and  stroke  his  temples  cool 

With  healthy  touches"  .  . 


AURORA     LEIGH.  217 

I  broke  in  at  that. 
I  (ould  not  lift  m3'  heavy  heart  to  breathe 
Till  then,  but  then  I  raised  it,  and  it  fell 
In  broken  words  like  these — "  No  need  to  wait. 
The  dream  of  doing  good  to  .   .  me,  at  .least, 
Is  ended,  without  waiting  for  a  wife 
To  cool  the  fever  for  him.     We've  escaped 
Tliat  danger  .  .  thank  Heaven  for  it." 

"Yon,"  she  cried, 
"  Have  got  a  fever.     What,  I  talk  and  talk 
An  hour  long  to  you — I  instruct  you  how 
You  cannot  eat  or  drink  or  stand  or  sit 
Or  even  die,  like  any  decent  wretch 
In  all  this  unroofed  and  unfurnished  world, 
Without  your  cousin — and  3'ou  still  maintain 
There's  room  'twixt  him  and  you,  for  flirting  itms 
And  running  knots  in  e3'ebrows  !     You  must  have 
A  pattern  lover  sighing  on  his  knee  : 
You  do  not  count  enough  a  noble  heart, 
Above  book-patterns,  which  this  very  morn 
Unclosed  itself,  in  two  dear  father's  names. 
To  embrace  your  orphaned  life  !  fie,  fie  !     But  sta} 
I  write  a  word,  and  counteract  this  sin." 

She  would  have  turned  to  leave  me,  but  I  clung. 

"  0  sweet  my  father's  sister,  hear  m^'  word 

Before  you  write  yours.      Cousin  Yane  did  well, 

And  Komney  well — and  I  well  too. 

In  casting  back  Avith  all  my  strength  and  will 

The  good" they  meant  me.     0  my  God,  my  God  ! 

God  meant   me  good,  too,  when  he  hindered  me 

From  saving  "yes"  this  morning.     If  you  write 

A  word,  it  shall  be  "no."     I  say  no,  no! 

I  tie  up  "  no"  upon  His  altar-horns, 

Quite  out  of  reach  of  perjurj- !     At  least 

My  soul  is  not  a  pauper;  I  can  live 

At  least  my  soul's  life,  without  alms  from  men. 

And  if  it  must  be  in  heaven  instead  of  earlh, 

Let  heaven  look  to  it — I  am  not  afraid." 

She  seized  my  hands  with  both  hers,  strained  them 

fast, 
And  drew  her  probing  and  unscrupulous  eyes 
Right  through   me,    body  and    heart.     "  Yet,   foolish 

Sweet, 
ro'J  love  this  man.     I  have  watched  you  when  he  came 


218  AURORA    LEI  an. 

And  when  he  went,  and  when  we've  talked  of  him 

I  am  not  old  for  nothing  ;  I  can  tell 

The  weather-signs  of  love — you  love  this  man, 

Girls  blush,  sometimes,  because  they  are  alive, 
Half  wishing  they  were  dead  to  save  the  shame. 
The  sudden  blush  devours  them,  neck  and  brow; 
Thej'^  have  drawn  too  near  the  fire  of  life,  like  gnats, 
And  flare  up  boldl}',  wings  and  all.     What  then  ? 
Who's  sorry  for  a  gnat  .  .  or  girl  ? 

I  blushed. 
I  feel  the  brand  upon  ray  forehead  now 
Strike  hot,  sear  deep,  as  guiltless  men  may  feel 
The  felon's  iron,  say,  and  scorn  the  mark 
Of  what  the}^  are  not.     Most  illogical, 
Irrational  nature  of  our  womanhood, 
That  blushes  one  way,  feels  another  way. 
And  prays,  perliaps,  another !     After  all, 
We  cannot  be  the  equal  of  the  male, 
Who  rules  his  blood  a  little. 

For  although 
I  blushed  indeed,  as  if  I  loved  the  man, 
And  her  incisive  smile,  accrediting 
That  treason  of  false  witness  in  my  blush, 
Did  bow  me  downward  like  a  swathe  of  grass 
Below  its  level  that  struck  me — I  attest 
The  conscious  skies  and  all  their  daily  suns, 
1  think  I  loved  him  not  .  .  nor  then,  nor  since 
Nor  ever.     Do  we  love  the  schoolmaster, 
Being  bu.s}-  in  the  woods?  much  less,  being  poor, 
The  overseer  of  the  parish  ?     Do  we  keep 
Our  love,  to  pay  our  debts  with  ? 

White  and  cold 
I  grew  next  moment.     As  ray  blood  recoiled 
From  that  imputed  ignominy,  I  made 
M3*  heart  great  with  it.     Then,  at  last,  I  spoke — 
Spoke  veritable  words,  but  passionate, 
Too  passionate  perhaps  .   .  ground  up  with  sobs 
To  shapeless  endings.     She  let  fiill  my  hands, 
And  took  her  smile  otf,  in  sedate  disgust, 
As  peradventure  she  had  touched  a  snake — 
A  dead  snake,  mind  ! — and,  turning  round,  replied, 
"  We'll  leave  Italian  manners,  if  you  please. 
I  think  you  had  an  English  fatliei-,  child, 
And  ought  to  find  it  possible  to  speak 
A.  quiet  'yes'  or  'no,'  like  English  girls, 


AURORA     LEIGH.  219 

Williout  convulsions.     In  another  month 
NVe'll  take  another  answer  .  .  no,  or  j-es." 
With  that,  she  left  me  in  the  garden-walk. 
I  liad  a  lather !  3'es,  but  long  ago — 
How  long  it  seemed  that  moment. — Oh,  how  far, 
I  low  far  and  safe,  God,  dost  thon  keep  thj^  saints 
"When  once  gone  from  us!     We  may  call  against 
The  lighted  windows  of  th^'  fair  June-heaven 
Where  all  the  souls  are  happy — and  not  one, 
Not  even  my  father,  look  from  work  or  play 
To  ask,  "  Who  is  it  that  cries  after  us. 
Below  there,  in  the  dusk  ?  "     Yet  formerly 
He  turned  his  face  upon  me  quick  enough, 
If  I  said  "father."     Now  I  might  cry  loud  ; 
The  little  lark  reached  higher  with  his  song 
Than  I  with  crying.      Oh,  alone,  alone — 
Not  troubling  any  in  heaven,  nor  any  on  earth, 
I  stood  there  in  the  garden,  and  looked  up 
The  deaf  blue  sky  that  brings  the  roses  out 
On  such  June  mornings. 

You  who  keep  account 
Of  crisis  and  transition  in  this  life, 
Set  down  the  first  time  Nature  sa^'s  plain  "  no '' 
To  some  "yes  "  in  you,  and  walks  over  you 
In  jTorgeous  sweeps  of  scorn.     We  all  begin 
By  singiiig  with  the  birds,  and  running  fast 
A\ith  June-days,  liand  in  hand  :  but  once,  for  all, 
The  birds  must  sing  against  us,  and  the  sun 
Strike  down  upon  us  like  a  friend's  sword  caught 
By  an  enemy  to  slay  us,  Avhile  we  read 
The  dear  name  on  the  blade  whieh  bites  at  us  ! —    , 
That's  bitter  and  convincing  :  after  that. 
We  seldom  doubt  that  something  in  the  large 
Smooth  order  of  creation  though  no  more 
Than  haply  a  man's  footstep,  has  gone  wrong. 

Some  tears  fell  down  my  cheeks,  and  then  I  smiled, 

As  those  smile  who  have  no  face  in  the  world 

To  smile  back  to  them.     I  had  lost  a  friend 

In  Komney  Leigh;  the  thing  was  sure — a  friend. 

Who  had  looked  at  me  most  gently  now  and  then. 

And  siH)ken  of  ni}'^  favorite  books  .  .  "  our  books  "  , 

With  such  a  voice  !     Well,  voice  and  look  were  now 

More  utterly  shut  out  from  me,  1  felt. 

Than  even  my  father's.     Komne}'  now  was  turued 

To  a  benefaci  :>r,  to  a  generous  man, 


r 


220  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Who  had  t,ied  himself  to  marry  .  .  me,  instead 

Of  such  a  woman,  with  low  timorous  lids 

He  lifted  with  a  sudden  word  one  da}', 

And  left,  perliaps,  for  my  sake. — Ah,  self-tied 

Ov  a  contract — male  Iphigenia,  bound 

At  a  fatal  Aulis,  for  the  winds  to  change, 

(But  loose  him — they'll  not  change  ;)  he  well  might 

seem 
A  little  cold  and  dominant  in  love  ? 
He  liad  a  right  to  be  dogmatical. 
This  poor,  good  Romney.     Love,  to  him,  was  made 
A  siinple  law-clause.     If  I  married  him, 
I  would  not  dare  to  call  my  soul  my  own, 
Wliich  so  he  had  bought  and  paid  for :  every  thought 
And  every  heart-beat  down  there  in  the  bill — 
Not  one  found  honestly  deductible 
From  any  use  that  pleased  him  !     He  might  cut 
My  bod}'  into  coins  to  give  awa}' 
Among  his  other  paupers  ;  change  my  sons, 
While  1  stood  dumb  as  Griseld,  for  black  babes 
Or  piteous  foundlings;  miglit  unquestioned  set 
M}'  right  hand  teaching  in  the  Ragged  Schools, 
My  left  hand  washing  in  the  Public  Baths, 
What  time  mj'  angel  of  the  Ideal  stretched 
Both  his  to  me  in  vain!     I  could  not  claim 
The  poor  right  of  a  mouse  in  a  trap,  to  squeal. 
And  take  so  much  as  pity,  from  myself. 

Farewell,  good  Romne}' !  if  I  loved  you  even, 

I  could  but  ill  attbrd  to  let  you  be 

So  generous  to  me.     Farewell,  friend,  since  friend 

Betwixt  us  two,  forsooth,  must  be  a  word 

So  heavily  overladen.     And,  since  help 

Must  come  to  me  from  those  who  love  me  not, 

Farewell,  all  helpers — I  must  help  myself. 

And  am  alone  from  henceforth. — Then  I  stooped, 

And  lifted  the  soiled  garland  from  the  ground, 

And  set  it  on  my  head  as  bitterl}^ 

As  when  the  Spanish  king  did  crown  the  bones 

Of  his  dead  love.     So  be  it.     I  preserve 

That   crown    still — in    the   drawer    there !   'twas    th« 

first ; 
The  rest  are  like  it ; — those  Olympian  crowns. 
We  run  for,  till  we  lose  sight  of  the  sun 
In  the  dust  of  the  racing  chariots  ! 

After  that, 
Before  the  evening  fell,  I  had  a  note 


AURORA     LEIGH.  221 

^\^luell  ran--"  Aurora,  sweet  Chaldean,  you  read 

My  meaning  backward  Hke  3'our  eastern  l)(K>ks, 

While  I  am  from  the  west,  dear.     Read  me  now 

A  little  plainer.     Did  you  hate  me  quite 

But  yesterday  ?     1  loved  30U  for  my  part ; 

1  love  you.     If  I  s[)oke  nntenderly 

This  morning,  my  beloved,  pardon  it ; 

And  comprehend  me  tliat  I  loved  yon  so, 

I  set  you  on  the  level  of  my  soul, 

And  overvvashed  you  with  the  bitter  brine 

Of  some  habitual  thoughts.     Henceforth,  m}-  flowers 

Be  planted  out  of  reach  of  any  such, 

And  lean  the  side  you  please,  with  all  your  leaves! 

Write  Woman's  verses  and  dream  woman's  dreams  ; 

But  let  me  feel  your  perfume  in  my  home, 

To  make  my  sabbath  after  working-daA'S ; 

Bloom  out  30ur  youth  beside  me — be  my  wife  " 

I  wrote  in  answer — "  We,  Chaldeans,  discern. 

Still  farther  than  we  read.     I  know  your  heart. 

And  shut  it  like  the  holy  book  it  is, 

Reserved  for  mild-eyed  saints  to  pore  upon 

Betwixt    their    prayers    at    vespers.       Well,    you're 

right, 
I  did  not  surely'  hate  you  3'esterday  ; 
And  3'et  I  do  not  love  you  enough  to-day 
To  wed  yon,  cousin  Romne}'.     Take  this  word, 
And  let  it  stop  you  as  a  generous  man 
From  speaking  farther.     You  ma}^  tease,  indeed, 
And  blow  about  my  feelings,  or  my  leaves — 
And  here's  m}'  aunt  will  help  you  witii  east  winds. 
And  lireak  a  stalk,  periiaps,  tormenting  me; 
But  ceitain  flowers  grow  near  as  deep  as  trees, 
And,  cousin,  3'ou'll  not  move  my  root,  not  you, 
With  all  your  confluent  storms.     Then  let  me  grow 
Within  my  wayside  hedge,  and  pass  your  way  ! 
This  flower  has  never  as  much  to  say  to  you 
As  the  antique  tomb  which  said  to  travellers,   '  Pause 
Siste,  viator.' "     Ending  thus,  I  signed. 

The  Picxt  week  passed  in  silence,  so  the  next, 
And  several  after  :   Romne}^  did  not  come, 
Nor  m_y  aunt  chide  me.     I  lived  on  and  on, 
As  if  my  heart  were  kept  beneath  a  glass, 
A.nd  everybody  stood,  all  ej'es  and  ears, 
To  see  and  hear  it  tick.     I  could  ncjt  sit, 


222  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Nor  walk,  nor  take  a  book,  nor  lay  it  down, 
Kor  sew  on  steadily,  nor  drop  a  stitch 
And  a,  sigh  with  it,  but  I  felt  her  looks 
Still  cleaA-ing-  to  me,  like  the  sucking  asp 
To  Cleopatra's  breast,  persistently 
Through  the  intermittent  pantings.     Being  observed, 
L  When  observation  is  not  sympathy, 

Is  just  being  tortured.     If  she  said  a  word, 

A  "thank  you,"  or  an  "  if  it  please  you,  dear," 

She  meant  a  comraination,  or,  at  best. 

An  exorcism  against  the  devildom 

Which  plainly  liehl  me.     So  with  all  the  house. 

Susannah  could  not  stand  and  t\Nist  my  hair. 

Without  such  glancing  at  the  looking-glass 

To  see  my  face  there,  that  she  missed  the  plait : 

And  John — I  never  sent  my  plate  for  soup, 

Or  did  not  send  it,  but  the  foolish  John 

Resolved  the  problem,  'twixt  his  napkined  thumbs. 

Of  what  was  signified  by  taking  soup 

Or  choosing  mackerel.     Neighbors,  who  dropped  in 

On  morning  visits,  feeling  a  joint  wrong. 

Smiled  admonition,  sat  uneasily. 

And  talked  with  measured,  emphasized  reserve. 

Of  parish  news,  like  doctors  t(j  the  sick. 

When  not  called  in — as  if,  with  leave  to  speak, 

They  might  say  something.     Nay,  the  very  dog 

Would  watch  me  from  his  sun-patch  on  the  floor, 

In  alternation  with  the  large  black  fly 

Not  yet  in  reach  of  snapping.     So  I  lived. 

A  Roman  died  so :  smeared  with  honey,  teased 
By  insects,  stared  to  torture  by  the  noon : 
And  many  patient  souls  'neath  English  roofs 
Have  died  like  Romans.     I,  in  looking  back. 
Wish  only,  now,  1  had  borne  the  plague  of  all 
With  meeker  spirits  than  were  rife  in  Rome. 

For,  on  the  sixth  week,  the  dead  sea  broke  up. 
Dashed  suddenly  throujih  beneath  the  heel  of  Him 
Who  stands  upon  the  sea  and  earth,  and  swears 
Time  shall  be  nevermore.     The  clock  struck  nine 
That  morning,  too,  no  lark  was  out  of  tune  ; 
The  hidden  farms  among  the  hills,  breathed  straight 
Their  smoke  toward  heaven  ;  the  lime-trees  scarcely 

stirred 
Beneath  the  blue  weight  of  the  cloudless  sky. 


AURORA      LEIGH.  223 

Though  still  the  July  air  came  floating  through 

The  woodbine  at  my  \vin(h)\v,  in  and  out, 

With  touches  of  the  out-dooi-  country-news 

For  a  bending  I'orehead.     There  I  sat,  and  wished 

That  morning-truce  of  God  wouhi  kist  till  eve, 

Or  longer.    "  81ee[),"  I  thought,  "  late  sleepers — sleep 

And  spare  me  yet  the  burden  of  your  eyes." 

Then,  suddenly,  a  single  ghastly  shriek 
Tore  ui) wards  from  the  bottom  of  the  house. 
Like  one  who  wakens  in  a  grave  and  shrieks. 
The  still  house  seemed  to  shriek  itself  alive, 
And  shudder  through  its  passages  and  stairs 
With  slain  of  doors  and  clash  of  bells. — 1  sprang, 
I  stood  up  in  tlie  middle  of  the  room, 
And  there  confronted  at  my  chamber-door, 
A  white  face — shivering,  inetfectual  lips. 

"  Come,  come,"  they  tried  to  utter,  and  1  went ; 
As  if  a  ghost  had  drawn  me  at  the  point 
Of  a  fiery  finger  through  the  uneven  dark, 
I  w-ent  with  reeling  footsteps  down  the  stair, 
Nor  asked  a  question. 

There  she  sat,  my  aunt — 
J>olt  upriuht  in  the  chair  beside  her  bed, 
AVhose  pillow  had  no  dint !  she  had  used  no  bed 
For  that  night's  sleeping  .  .  yet  slept  well.     My  God, 
The  dumb  derision  of  tliat  grey,  peaked  face 
Concluded  something  grave  against  the  sun, 
Which  filled  tiie  chamber  with  its  July  burst 
When  Susan  drew  the  curtains,  ignorant 
Of  who  sat  open-eyed  behind  her.     There, 
She  sat  .  .  it  sat  .  .  we  said  "  she"  yesterday  . 
And  hold  a  letter  with  unltroken  seal. 
As  Susan  gave  it  to  her  hand  last  night : 
All  night  she  had  held  it.     If  its  news  referred 
To  duchies  or  to  dunghills,  not  an  inch 
She'd  budge,  'twas  obvious,  for  such  worthless  odds: 
Nor,  though  the  stars. were  suns,  and  overburned 
Their  sidieric  limitations,  swallowing  up 
Like  wax  the  azure  spaces,  could  they  force 
Those  open  eyes  to  wink  once.      \\'hat  last  sight 
Had  left  them  blank  and  fiat  so — drawing  out 
The  faculty  of  vision  from  the  roots, 
A.S  nothing  more,  worth  seeing,  remained  behin^l  ? 


224  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Were  those  the  8368  that  watched  me,  worried  me? 

That  dogged  me  np  and  doAvn  the  hours  and  days, 

A  beaten,  breathless,  miserable  soul  ? 

And  did  1  pra}-,  a  half  hour  back,  but  so. 

To  escape  the  burden  of  those  e3'es  .  .  those  eyes 

"  Sleep  late,"  I  said.— 

Why  now,  Indeed,  they  sleep, 
God  answers  sharp  and  sudden  on  some  prayers, 
And  thrusts  the  thing  we  have  prayed  for  in  our  face, 
A  gauntlet  with  a  gift  int.     Every  wish 
Is  like  a  prayer  .  .  with  God. 

I  had  m}^  wish- 
To  read  and  meditate  the  thing  I  would, 
To  fashion  all  my  life  upon  my  thought, 
And  marry,  or  not  marry.     Hencefoilh,  none 
Could  disapprove  me,  vex  me,  hamper  me. 
Full  ground-room,  in  this  desert  newly  made. 
For  Babylon  or  Balbec — when  the  breath. 
Just  choked  with  sand,  returns,  for  building  towns! 

The  heir  came  over  on  the  funeral  day, 

And  we  two  cousins  met  before  tlie  dead. 

With  two  pale  faces.     Was  it  death  or  life 

That  moved  us  ?     When  the  will  was  read  and  done, 

The  official  guest  and  witnesses  withdrawn. 

We  rose  upin  a  silence  almost  hard, 

And  looked  at  one  another.     Then  I  said. 

"  Farewell,  my  cousin." 

But  he  touched,  just  touched 

My  hatstrings  tied  for  going,  (at  the  door 

The  carriage  stood  to  take  me,)  and  said  low, 

His  voice  a  little  unsteady  through  his  smile, 

"  Siste,  viator." 

"  Is  there  time,"  I  asked, 
"  In  these  last  days  of  railroads,  to  stop  short 
Like  Caesar's  chariot  (weighing  half  a  ton) 
On  the  Appian  road  for  morals?" 

"There  is  ti^ie,'' 
He  answered  grave,  "  for  necessary  words. 
Inclusive,  trust  me,  of  no  epitaph 
On  man  or  act,  my  cousin.     We  have  i-ead 
A  will,  which  gives  you  all  the  personal  goods 
And  funded  moneys  of  your  aunt." 

"  I  thank 
Her  memory  for  it.     With  three  hundred  pounds 
We  buy  in  England  even,  clear  standing-room 


AURORA     LEIGH.  22.^ 

To  sliind  and  work  in.     Onlj'  two  hours  since, 
I  fancied  I  was  poor." 

"And  cousin,  still 
You're  ri:-lier  than  3'ou  fancy.     The  will  says, 
Three  hundred  pounda,  and  any  other  sum 
Of  which  the  said  testatrix  dies  possessed. 
I  sa}^  she  died  possessed  of  other  sums." 

"Dear  Romney,  need  we  chronicle  the  pence? 
I'm  richer  than  I  thought — that's  evident. 
Enough  so." 

"  Listen  rather.     You've  to  do 
AVith  business  and  a  cousin,"  he  resumed, 
"  And  both,  I  fear,  need  patience.     Here's  the  fact. 
The  other  sum  (there  is  anotlier  sum, 
Unspecified  in  any  will  whicb  dates 
After  possession,  j-et  bequeathed  as  much 
And  clearly  as  those  said  three  hundred  pounds) 
Is  thirty  thousand.     You  will  have  it  paid 
When?    .    .    where?      My    duty    troubles    you    with 
words." 

He  struck  the  iron  when  the  bar  was  hot ; 
No  wonder  if  ray  eyes  sent  out  some  spaiks. 
"  Pause  tliere  !  I  thank  you.     You  are  delicate 
In  glosing  gifts ; — but  I,  who  share  3'our  blood, 
Am  rather  made  for  giving,  like  yourself, 
Than  taking,  like  3'our  pensioners.     Farewell." 

He  stopped  me  with  a  gesture  of  calm  pride. 

"  A  Leigh,"  he  said,  "gives  largesse  and  gives  love. 

But  gloses  neither:  if  a  Leigh  could  glose, 

He  would  not  do  it,  moreover,  to  a  Leigh, 

With  blood  trained  up  along  nine  centuries 

To  hound  and  hate  a  lie,  from  eyes  like  yours. 

And  now  we'll  make  the  rest  as  clear ;  your  aunt 

Possessed  these  moneys." 

"  You'll  make  it  clear, 
M}'  cousin,  as  the  honor  of  us  both, 
Or  one  of  us  speaks  vainly — that's  not  I. 
My  aunt  possessed  this  sum — inherited 
From    whom,    and    when  ?    bring    documents,    prove 
dates." 

"  Why  now  indeed  you  throw  your  bonnet  off. 
As  if  you  had  time  left  for  a  logarithm  1 


226  AURORA     LEIGH, 

The  faith's  the  want.     Dear  cousin,  give  me  faith, 
And  jou  shall  walk  this  road  witli  silken  shoes, 
As  clean  as  any  lady  of  our  house 
Supposed  the  proudest.     Oh,  I  comprehend 
The  whole  position  from  your  point  of  sight. 
I  oust  ,you  from  3'our  father's  halls  and  lands, 
And  make  you  poor  b}'  getting  rich — that's  law; 
Considering  which,  in  common  cii'cumstance, 
You  woidd  not  scruple  to  accept  from  me 
Some  compensation,  some  sutliciency 
Of  income — that  were  justice;  but,  alas, 
I  love  you  .  .  that's  mere  nature! — you  reject 
My  love  .  .  that's  nature  also ; — and  at  once, 
Yon  cannot,  from  a  suitor  disallowed, 
A  hand  thrown  back  as  mine  is,  into  yours 
Receive  a  doit,  a  farthing,  .  .   not  for  the  world  ! 
That's  etiquette  with  women,  obviouslj' 
Exceeding  claim  of  nature,  law,  and  right, 
Unanswerable  to  all.     I  grant,  3'ou  see, 
The  case  as  you  conceive  it — leave  you  room 
To  sweep  your  ample  skirts  of  womanhood  ; 
While,  standing  huml)l3'  squeezed  against  the  wall, 
I  own  myself  excluded  from  being  just, 
Restrained  from  pajing  indubitable  debts, 
Because  denied  from  giving  you  m}'^  soul — 
That's  my  fortune! — I  submit  to  it 
As  if,  in  some  more  reasonable  age, 
'Twonld  not  be  less  inevitable.     Enough. 
You'll  trust  me,  cousin,  as  a  gentleman, 
To  keep  3our  honor,  as  you  count  it,  pure — 
Your  scruples  (just  as  if  I  thought  them  wise) 
Safe  and  invioLate  from  gifts  of  mine." 

I  answered  mild  but  earnest.     "  I  believe 

In  no  one's  honor  which  another  keeps, 

Nor  man's  nor  woman's.     As  I  keep,  myself, 

M3^  truth  and  my  reliiiion,  I  depute 

No  father,  though  I  had  one  this  side  death, 

Nor  brother,  though  I  had  tw-ent}',  much  less  you, 

Though  twice  ni}'  cousin,  and  once  Romney  I^eigh, 

To  keep  my  honor  pure.     You  face,  to-da}', 

A  man  who  wants  instruction,  mark  me,  not 

A  woman  who  wants  protection.     As  to  a  man, 

Show  manhood,  speak  out  plainly,  be  precise 

With  facts  and  dates.     My  aunt  inherited 

This  sum,  you  say — " 


AURORA     LEIGH.  221 

"  I  said  she  died  possessed 
Of  this,  dear  cousin." 

"  Not  bj'  heritage. 
Tliank  3'ou  :  we're  getting  to  the  facts  at  last. 
Perhaps  she  phiyed  at  commerce  with  a  ship 
Which  came  in  iieav^-  with  Australian  gold  ? 
Or  touched  a  lottery  with  her  finger-end, 
Which  tumbled  on  a  sudden  into  her  lap 
Some  old  Rhine  tower  or  principality  ? 
Perhaps  she  had  to  do  with  a  marine 
Sub-transatlantic  railroad,  which  pre-pa^^s 
As  well  as  pre-supi)oses  ?  or  perhaps 
Some  stale  ancestral  debt  was  after-paid 
By  a  hundred  years,  and  took  her  by  surprise? — 
You  shake  your  head  my  cousin  ;  I  guess  ill." 

"You  need  not  guess,  Aurora,  nor  deride, 
The  truth  is  not  afraid  of  hurting  you. 
You'll  find  no  cause,  in  all  your  scruples,  why 
Your  aunt  should  cavil  at  a  deed  of  gift 
'Twixt  her  and  me." 

"  I  thought  so— ah  1  a  gift  " 

"You  naturally  thought  so,"  he  resumed 
"A  A'ery  natural  gift." 

"  A  gift,  a  gift ! 
Iler  individual  life  being  stranded  high 
Above  all  want,  approaching  opulence. 
Too  haughty  was  she  to  accept  a  gift 
Without  some  ultimate  aim  :  ah,  ah,  I  see — 
A  gift  intended  plainly  for  her  heirs. 
And  so  accepted  .  .  if  accepted  .  .  ah. 
Indeed  that  might  be  ;  I  am  snared  perhaps, 
Just  so.     But,  cousin,  shall  I  pardon  3'ou, 
If  thus  you  have  caught  me  with  a  cruel  springe  ?" 

He  answered  gently,  "  Need  you  tremble  and  pant 
Like  a  netted  lioness?  is't  my  ftiult,  mine. 
That  you're  a  grand  wild  creature  of  the  woods, 
And  hate  the  stall  built  for  you  ?     Any  wa}^ 
Though  triply  netted,  need  you  glare  at  me? 
I  do  not  hold  the  cords  of  such  a  net, 
You're  free  from  me,  Aurora!" 

"  Now  may  God 
Deliver  me  from  this  strait !     This  gift  of  vours 
Was  tendered  .  .  when  ?  accepted  .  .  when  ?  "  I  asked 


228  AURORA     LEIGH. 

"A  month  .  .  a  fortnight  since?    Six  weeks  ago 
It  was  not  tendered.     By  a  word  she  dropped, 
I  know  it  was  not  tendered  nor  received. 
When  was  it?  bring  your  dates." 

"  What  matters  when  ? 
A  half-hour  ere  she  died,  or  a  half-year. 
Secured  the  gift,  maintains  the  heritage 
Inviolable  with  law.     As  eas}^  pluck 
The  golden  stars  from  heaven's  embroidered  stole. 
To  pin  them  on  the  grey  side  of  this  earth. 
As  make  you  poor  again,  thank  God." 

"Not  poor 
Nor  clean  again  from  henceforth,  you  thank  God  ? 
Well,  sir — I  ask  you  .  .  I  insist  at  need  .  . 
Vouchsafe  the  special  date,  the  special  date." 

"The  day  before  her  death-day,"  he  replied, 

"  The  gift  was  in  her  hands.     We'll  find  that  deed. 

And  certify  that  date  to  you." 

As  one 
Who  has  climbed  a  mountain -height  and  carried  np 
His  own  heart  climbing,  panting  in  his  throat 
With  the  toil  of  the  ascent,  takes  breath  at  last, 
Looks  back  in  triumph — so  I  stood  and  looked  : 
"  Dear  cousin  Ilomney,  we  have  readied  the  top 
Of  this  steep  question,  and  may  rest,  J  think. 
But  first,  1  pray  you  pardon,  that  the  shock 
And  surge  of  natural  feeling  and  event 
Had  made  me  oblivious  of  acquainting  5'ou 
That  this,  tliis  letter  .  .  unread,  mark — still  sealed, 
AVas  found  enfolded  in  the  poor  dead  hand  : 
That  spirit  of  hers  had  gone  beyond  the  address, 
Which  could  not  find  her  though  you  wrote  it  clear-  . 
I  know  3'our  writing,  Romney — recognize 
The  open-hearted  A,  the  liberal  sweep 
Of  the  G.     Now  listen — let  us  understand  ; 
You  will  not  find  that  famous  deed  of  gift, 
Unless  j-ou  find  it  in  the  letter  here, 
Which,  not  being  mine,  I  give  3'ou  back. — Refuse 
To  take  the  letter  ?  well  then — 3-ou  and  I, 
As  writer  and  as  heiress,  open  it 

Together,  by  your  leave. Exactly  so : 

The  words  in  which  the  noble  offering's  made, 
Are  nobler  still,  my  cousin  ;  and,  I  own, 
The  proudest  and  most  delicate  heart  alive, 
Distracted  from  the  measure  of  the  gift 


"  As  I  spoke,  I  tore 
The  paper  up  aiul  ilown.   and  down  and  np 
And  crosswise,  till  it  tiuttered  from  uij-  hands." 


AURORA     LEIOH.  229 

15y  sucli  a  grace  in  giving,  might  accept 

Your  largesse  williout  thinking  an}'  more 

Of  the  bnrlhen  of  it,  tlian  King  Solomon 

Considered,  when  he  ivoie  his  hoi}'  ring 

Charactered  over  with  the  ineffable  spell, 

How  many  carats  of  fine  gold  made  up 

Its  money-value.     So,  Leigh  gives  to  Leigh — 

Or  rather,  might  have  given,  observe  I — for  that's 

The  point  Ave  come  to.     Here's  a  i)roof  of  gift, 

]5ut  here's  no  i)roof,  sir,  of  acceplancy, 

But  rather,  disproof.     Death's  black  dust,  being  blowr , 

Infiltrated  tlirough  every  secret  fold 

Of  this  scaled  letter  by  a  putf  of  fate, 

Dried  up  forever  the  fresh-written  ink, 

Annulled  tlie  gift,  disutilized  the  grace. 

And  left  these  IVagments." 

As  I  spoke,  I  tore 
The  paper  up  and  down,  and  down  and  up 
And  crosswise,  till  it  fluttered  from  my  hands, 
As  forest-leaves,  stripped  suddenly  and  rapt 
By  a  whirlwind  on  Yaldarno,  drop  again, 
Drop  slow,  and  strew  the  melancholy  ground 
Before  the  amazed  hills  .  .  .  why,  so,  indeed, 
I'm  writing  like  a  poet,  somewhat  large 
In  tlie  type  of  the  image  -  and  exaggerate 
A  small  thing  with  a  great  thing,  topping  it  ! — 
But  then  I'm  thinking  how  his  eyes  looked  .  .  his^ 
With  what  despondent  and  sur[)rised  reproach  1 
I  think  the  tears  were  in  them  as  he  looked — 
I  think  the  manly  mouth  just  trembled.     Then 
He  broke  the  silence. 

"  I  may  ask,  perhaps. 
Although  no  stranger  ,  .  only  Roraney  Leigh, 
Which  means  still  less  .  .  than  Vincent  Carrington  . 
Your  plans  in  going  hence,  and  where  you  go. 
This  cannot  be  a  secret." 

-V  "  AH  my  life 

Is  open  to  you,  cousin.      I  go  hence 
To  London,  to  the  gathering-place  of  souls. 
To  live  mine  straight  out,  vocally  in  bo(dcs  ; 
Harmoniously  for  others,  if  indeed 
A  woman's  soul,  like  man's,  be  wide  enough 

/  To  carry  the  whole  octave  (that's  to  prove) 
Or,  if  I  fail,  still,  purely  for  myself. 
Fray  God  be  with  me,  llomney." 

"  Ah,  poor  child. 


230  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Who  fight  against  the  mother's  tiring  hand, 

And  choose  the  headsman's!    May  God    change  his 

world 
For  yoiir  sake,  sweet,  and  make  it  mikl  as  heaven, 
And  juster  than  I  have  found  you  I  " 

But  I  paused 
"  And  you,  my  cousin  ?  " — 

"  I,"  he  said — "  3'ou  ask  ' 
You  care  to  ask  ?     Well,  girls  have  curious  minds, 
And  fain  would  know  the  end  of  ever3thing, 
Of  cousins,  therefore,  with  the  rest.     For  me, 
Aurora,  I've  my  work  ;  3'ou  know  my  work  ; 
And  having  missed  this  year  some  personal  hope, 
I  must  beware  the  rather  that  I  miss 
No  reasonable  duty.     While  yon  sing 
Your  happy  pastorals  of  the  meads  and  trees. 
Bethink  you  that  I  go  to  impress  and  prove 
On  stifled  brains  and  deafened  ears,  stunned  deaf. 
Crushed  dull  with  grief,  that  nature  sings  itself, 
And  needs  no  mediate  poet,  lute  or  voice. 
To  make  it  vocal.      While  you  ask  of  men 
Your  audience,  I  ma}'  get  their  leave  perhaps 
For  hnugr}^  orphans  to  sa}'  audibly 
"  We're  hungry,  see," — for  beaten  and  bullied  wives 
To  hold  their  unweaned  babies  up  in  sight. 
Whom  orphanage  would  better ;  and  for  all 
To  speak  and  claim  their  portion  .  .  by  no  means 
Of  the  soil,  .  .  but  of  the  svveat  in  tilling  it — 
Since  this  is  now-a-days  turned  privilege, 
To  have  only  God's  curse  on  us,  and  not  man's — 
Such  work  I  have  for  doing,  elbow-deep 
In  social  problems — as  you  tie  your  rhymes, 
To  draw  m\^  uses  to  cohere  with  needs. 
And  bring  the  uneven  world  back  to  its  round ; 
Or,  failing  so  mucli,  fill  up,  bridge  at  least 
To  smoother  issues,  some  abysmal  cracks 
And  feuds  of  earth,  intestine  heats  have  made 
To  keep  men  separate — using  sorry  shifts 
Of  hospitals,  almshouses,  infant  schools. 
And  other  practical  stuff  of  partial  good, 
You  lovers  of  the  beautiful  and  whole, 
Despise  by  sj-stem." 

"/despise?     The  scorn 
Is  yours,  my  cousin.     Poets  become  such, 
Through  scorning  nothing.     You  deer}'  them  for 
The  good  of  beauty,  sung  and  taught  bj-  them, 


AURORA      LEIGH.  2]] 

While  they  respect  3-onr  practical  partial  good 
As  being-  a  part  of  beauty's  self.     Adieu! 
When  God  helps  all  the  workers  for  his  world, 
The  singers  shall  have  help  of  Him,  not  last." 

He  smiled  as  men  smile  when  they  will  not  speak 
Because  of  sometliing  bitter  in  the  thought; 
And  still  I  feel  his  melancholy  eyes 
Looked  judgment  on  me.     It  is  seven  3^ears  since  : 
I  know  not  if  'twas  pity  or  'twas  scorn 
Has  made  them  so  far-reaching:  judge  it  ye 
Who  have  had  to  do  with  pity  more  than  love. 
And  scorn  than  hatred.     I  am  used,  since  then, 
To  other  ways,  from  equal  men.     But  so. 
Even  so,  we  let  go  hands,  my  cousin  and  I, 
And,  in  between  us,  rushed  the  torrent-world 
To  blanch  our  faces  like  divided  rocks, 
And  bar  forever  mutual  sight  and  touch 
Except  through  swirl  of  spray  and  all  that  roar. 


THIRD  BOOK. 

'*  To-day  thou  girdest  up  thy  loins  thyself, 
And  goest  where  thou  wouldest :  presentlj'^ 
Others  shall  gird  thee,"  said  the  Lord,  "to  go 
Where  thou  would 'st  not."     He  spoke  to  Peter  thi  a^ 
To  signify  the  death  which  he  should  die 
When  crucified  head  downwards. 

If  He  spoke 
To  Peter  then,  He  speaks  to  us  the  same; 
The  word  suits  man}'  dilfereut  martyrdoms, 
And  signifies  a  multiform  of  death. 
Although  we  scarcely'  die  apostles,  we, 
And  have  mislaid  the  keys  of  heaven  and  earth. 

For  'tis  not  in  mere  death  that  men  die  most ; 
And,  after  our  first  girding  of  the  loins 
In  youth's  fine  linen  and  fair  broidery, 
To  run  up  liill  and  meet  the  rising  sun. 
We  are  apt  to  sit  tired,  patient  as  a  fool, 
While  others  gird  us  with  the  violent  bands 
Of  social  figments,  feints,  and  I'onnalisms, 
Reversing  our  straight  nature,  lifting  up 


23L'  aurora     LEIGH. 

Our  base  needs,  keeping  down  our  lofty  thoughts, 
Head-downward  on  the  cross-sticks  of  the  world. 
Yet  He  can  pluck  us  from  the  shameful  cross. 
God,  set  our  feet  low  and  our  forehead  high, 
And  show  us  how  a  man  was  made  to  -walk! 

Leave  the  lamp,  Susan,  and  go  up  to  bed. 

The  room  does  very  well ;  I  have  to  write 

Beyond  the  stroke  of  midnight.     Get  awa^^ 

Your  steps,  forever  buzzing  iu  the  room. 

Tease  me  like  gnats.     Ah,  letters !  throw  them  down 

At  once,  as  I  must  have  them,  to  be  sure, 

Whether  I  bid  you  never  bring  me  such 

At  such  an  hour,  or  bid  you.     No  excuse. 

You  choose  to  bring  them,  as  I  choose  perhaps 

To  thrown  them  in  tlie  fire.     Now,  get  to  bed, 

And  dream,  if  possible,  1  am  not  cross. 

Why  what  a  pettish,  petty  thing  T  grow — 
A  mere,  mere  woman — a  mere  flaccid  nerve — ■ 
A  kerchief  left  out  all  night  in  the  rain. 
Turned  soft  so — overtasked  and  overstrained 
And  overlived  in  this  close  London  life  ! 
And  yet  I  should  be  stronger. 

Never  burn 
Yoor  letters,  poor  Aurora!   for  they  stare 
With  red  seals  from  the  table,  saying  each. 
"  Here's  something  that  you  know  not."     Out  alas, 
'Tis  scarcely  that  the  world's  more  good  and  wise 
Or  even  straighter  and  more  consequent 
Since  yesterday  at  this  time — yet,  again, 
If  but  one  angel  spoke  from  Ararat, 
I  should  be  very  sorr3'  not  to  hear: 
So  open  all  the  letters  !  let  me  read. 
Blanche  Ord,  the  writer  in  the  "  Lady's  Fan," 
Requests  ni3' judgment  on  .  .  that,  afterwards. 
Kate  Ward  desires  the  model  of  my  cloak. 
And  signs,  "  Elisha  to  you."     Pringle  Sharpe 
Presents  his  work  on  "  Social  Conduct,"  .  .  craves 
A  little  money  for  his  pressing  debts  .  . 
From  me,  who  scarce  have  money  for  my  needs — 
Art's  fiery  chariot  which  we  journey  in 
Beinp"  apt  to  singe  our  singing-robes  to  holes, 
Although  you  ask  me  for  my  cloak,  Kate  Ward  I 
Here's  Kudgely  knows  it — editor  and  scribe — 
He's  "forced  to  marry  where  his  heart  is  not, 


AURORA     LEIGH.  2:33 

Because  the  purse  lacks  where  he  lost  his  heart." 

Ah lost  it  because  no  one  picked  it  up  ! 

That's  really  loss  !  (and  passable  impudence.) 
My  critic  Ilamuiond  flatters  prettily, 
And  wants  another  volume  like  the  last. 
My  critic  Ijcllair  wants  anotlier  book 
Entirely  diiierent,  which  will  sell,  (and  live?) 
A  striking  book,  yet  not  a  startling  book, 
The  public  blames  originalities, 
(You  must  not  pump  spring-water  unawares 
Upon  a  gracious  public,  full  of  nerves — ) 
Good  things,  not  subtle,  new  yet  orthodox, 
As  easy  reading  as  the  dog-eared  page 
That's  fingered  by  said  public,  fifty  years, 
Since  first  taught  spelling  l)v  its  grandmother, 
And  yet  a  revelation  in  some  sort: 
That's  hard,  ni}-  critic,  Belfair!     So — what  nextf 
My  critic  Stokes  objects  to  abstract  thoughts  ; 
"  Call  a  man,  John,  a  woman,  Joan,"  says  he, 
"And  do  not  prate  so  of  humanities  :" 
Whereat  I  call  my  critic,  simi)ly  Stokes. 
My  critic  Jobson  recommends  more  mirth, 
-Because  a  cheerful  genius  suits  the  times, 
And  all  true  poets   In  ugh  unquenchably 
Like  Shakspeare  and  the  go(ls.     That's  A-ery  hard. 
The  gods  may  laugh,  and  Shakspeare;  Dante  smiled 
With  such  a  needy  heart  on  two  pale  lips, 
We  cry,  "Weep  rather,  Dante."     Poems  are 
]Men,  if  true  poems:  and  who  dares  exclaim 
At  any  man's  door,  "  Here,  'tis  probable 
The  thunder  fell  last  week,  and  killed  a  wife, 
And  scared  a  sickly  husband — what  of  that? 
Get  up,  be  meriy,  shout,  and  clap  your  hands, 
Because  a  cheerful  genius  suits  the  times — ?"  ( 
None  says  so  to  the  man — and  why  indeed 
Should  any  to  the  poem  ?     A  ninth  seal ; 
I'he  apocalypse  is  drawing  to  a  close. 
JIa — this  from  Yincent  Carrington — "Dear  friend, 
I  want  good  counsel.     Will  3'ou  lend  me  wings 
To  raise  me  to  the  subject,  in  a  sketch 
I'll  bring  to-morrow — may  I  ?  at  eleven? 
A  poet's  only  born  to  turn  to  use; 
So  save  3'ou  !  for  the  world  .  .  and  Carrington." 
"  (Writ  after.)     Have  you  heard  of  Komney  Leigh, 
Beyond  what's  said  of  him  in  newspapers, 
Uis  phalansteries  there,  his  speeches  here, 


234  AURORA      LEIGH. 

His  pamphlets,  pleas,  and  statements,  everywhere  ? 

He  dropped  me  long  ago  ;  but  no  one  drops 

A  golden  apple — though,  indeed,  one  day, 

You  hinted  that,  but  jested.     Well,  at  least, 

Yon  know  Lord  Howe,  who  sees  him  .  .  whom  he  seea 

And  you  see,  and  I  hate  to  see — for  Howe 

Stands  high  upon  the  brink  oT  theories, 

Observes  the  swimmers,  and  cries  '  Yer3'  fine,' 

But  keeps  dry  linen  equally — unlike 

That  gallant  breaster,  Ronniey.     Strange  it  is 

Such  sudden  madness,  seizing  a  youn*)-  man 

To  make  earth  over  again — while  I'm  content 

To  make  the  pictures.     Let  me  bring  the  sketch. 

A  tiptoe  Danae,  overbold  and  hot ; 

Both  arms  a-flame  to  meet  her  wishing  Jove 

Halfvvay,  and  burn  him  faster  down  ;  the  face 

And  breasts  upturned  and  straining,  1  he  loose  locks 

All  glowing  with  the  anticipated  gohl. 

Or  here's  another  on  the  self-same  theme. 

She  lies  here — flat  upon  her  prison-floor. 

The  long  hair  swathed  about  her  to  the  heel, 

Like  wet  sea-weed.     You  dimly  see  her  throu<Th 

The  glittering  haze  of  that  prodigious  rain, 

Half  blotted  out  of  nature  by  a  love 

As  heavy  as  fate.     I'll  bring  you  either  sketch. 

I  think   myself,  the  second  indicates 

More  passion." 

Surely.     Self  is  put  away, 
And  calm  with  abdication.     She  is  Jove, 
And  no  more  Danae — greater  thus.     Perhapja 
The  painter  symbolizes  unawares 
Two  states  of  the  recipient  artist-soul ; 
One,  forward,  personal,  wanting  reverence, 
Because  aspiring  only.     We'll  be  calm, 
And  know  that,  when  indeed  our  Joves  come  down 
We  all  turn  stiller  than  we  have  ever  been. 

Kind  Yincent  Carrington.     I'll  let  him  come. 
He  talks  of  Florence — and  may  sa_y  a  word 

Of  something  as  it  chanced  seven  years  ao-o 

A  hedgehog  in  the  path,  or  a  lame  bird, 

In  those  green  country  walks,  in  that  good  time, 

When  certainly  I  was  so  miserable  .  . 

1  seem  to  have  missed  a  blessing  ever  since. 

The  music  soars  within  the  little  lark, 

And  the  lark  soars.     It  is  not  thus  with  men. 


AURORA     LEIGH.  035 

We  do  not  make  our  places  with  our  strains — ■ 
Content,  wliile  tliey  rise,  to  remain  behind. 
Alone  on  earth  instead  of  so  in  heaven. 
No  matter — I  bear  on  my  broken  tale. 

When  Roraney  Leigh  and  I  had  parted  thus, 

I  took  a  chamber  up  three  flights  of  stairs 

Not  far  from  being  as  steep  as  some  larks  climb, 

And,  in  a  certain  iiouse  in  Kensington, 

Three  years  I  lived  and  worked.     Get  leave  to  work 

In  this  world — 'tis  the  best  you  get  at  all ; 

For  God,  in  cursing,  gives  us  better  gifts 

Than  men  in  benediction.     God  says,  "  Sweat 

For  foreheads  ;  "  men  say   "  crowns  ;  "  and  so  we  are 

crowned. 
Ay,  gashed  by  some  tormenting  circle  of  steel 
Which  snaps  with    a  secret  spring.     Get  work ;   get 

Avork ; 
Be  sure  'tis  better  than  what  you  work  to  get. 

So,  happy  and  unafraid  of  solitude, 

I  worked  the  short  da3^s  out — and  watched  the  sun 

On  lurid  morns  or  monstrous  afternoons, 

,Like  some  Druidic  idol's  fier}-  brass, 
With  fixed  unflickering  outline  of  dead  heat. 
In  which  the  blood  of  wretches  pent  inside 
Seemed  oozing  forth  to  incarnadine  the  air — 

!  Push  out  through  fog  with  his  dilated  disk. 
And  startle  tlie  slant  roofs  and  chimney-pots 
With  splashes  of  fierce  color.     Or  I  saw 
Fog  only,  the  great  tawny  weltering  fog 
Involve  the  passive  city,  strangle  it 
Alive,  and   draw  it  off  into  the  void, 
Spires,  bridges,  streets,  and  squares,  as  if  a  sponge 
Had  wiped  out  London — or  as  noon  and  night 
Had  clapped  together  and  utterly  struck  out 
The  intermediate  time,  undoing-  themselves 
In  the  act.     Your  city  poets  see  such  things. 
Not  despicable.     Mountains  of  the  south, 
When,  drunk  and  mad  with  elemental  wines, 
They  rend  the  seamless  mist  and  stand  up  bare, 
Make  fewer  singers,  haply.     No  one  sings, 
Descending  Sinai  ;  on  Parnassus  mount. 
You  take  a  mule  to  climli,  and  not  a  muse, 
Except  in  fable  and  figure  :  forests  chant 
Their  anthems  to  themselves,  and  leave  you  dumb. 


236  AURORA      LEIGH. 

But  sit  in  London,  at  the  day's  decline, 

And  view  the  cit3^  perish  in  the  mist 

Like  Pharaoh's  armaments  in  the  deep  Red  Sea— 

The  chariots,  horsemen,  footmen,  all  the  host, 

Sucked  down  and  choked  to  silence — then,  surprised 

By  a  sudden  sense  of  vision  and  of  tune. 

You  feel  as  conquerors  though  you  did  not  fight, 

And  you  and  Israel's  other  singing  girls, 

Ay,  Miriam  with  them,  sing  the  song  you  choose. 

I  worked  with  patience  which  means  almost  power. 

I  did  some  excellent  things  indifferentl3% 

Some  bad  things  excellently.     Both  were  praised, 

The  latter  loudest.     And  by  such  a  time 

That  I  myself  had  set  them  down  as  sins 

Scarce  worth  the  price  of  sackcloth,  week  by  week, 

Arrived  some  letter  through  the  sedulous  post, 

Like  these  I've  read,  and  yet  dissimilar. 

With  pretty-  maiden  seals — initials  twined 

Of  lilies,  or  a  heart  marked  Emily, 

(Convicting  Emily  of  being  all  heart  ;) 

Or  rarer  tokens  from  \'oung  bachelors. 

Who  wrote  from  college  (with  the  same  goosequill, 

Sup[)ose,  they  had  been  just  plucked  off)  and  a  snatch 

From  Horace,  "  Collegisse  juvat,"  set 

Upon  the  first  page.     Many  a  letter  signed 

Or  unsigned,  showing  the  writers  at  eighteen 

Had  lived  too  long,  though  ever}'^  muse  should  help 

The  daylight,  holding  candles — compliments, 

To  smile  or  sigh  at.     Such  could  pass  with  me 

No  more  than  coins  from  Moscow  circulate 

At  Paris.     Would  ten  rubles  buj^  a  tag 

Of  ribbon  on  the  boulevard,   worth  a  sou  ? 

I  smiled  that  all  this  youth  should  love  me — sighed 

That  such  a  love  could  scarcely  raise  them  up 

To  love  what  was  more  worthy  than  m3'self ; 

Then  sighed  again,  again,  less  generousl}^ 

To  think  the  very  love  they  lavished  so. 

Proved  me  inferior.     The  strong  loved  me  not, 

And  he  .  .  my  cousin  Roniney  .  .  did  not  write. 

[  felt  the  silent  finger  of  his  scorn 

Prick  ever}'  bubble  of  my  frivolous  fame 

As  my  breath  blew  it,  and  resolve  it  back 

To  the  air  it  came  from.     Oh,  I  justified 

The  measure  he  had  taken  of  my  height  : 

The  thing  was  plain — he  was  not  wrong  a  line : 


A  U  R  0  R  A     L  E  I  O  H  .  >2'Sl 

I  played  at  art,  made  thrusts  Avith  a  toj'-sword, 
Amused  the  lads  and  maidens. 

Came  a  sii^h 
Deep,  hoarse  with  resolution— I  would  work 
To  better  ends,  or  play  in  earnest.     "  Heavens, 
I  think  I  should  be  almost  popular 
If  this  went  on!" — I  ripped  my  verses  up, 
And  found  no  blood  ui)on  the 'rapier's  point: 
The  heart  in  them  was  just  an  embryo's  heart 
Which  never  yet  had  beat,  that  it  should  die: 
Just  gasps  of  make-believe  galvanic  life  • 
Mere  tones,  iuorganized  to  any  tune. 

And  yet  I  felt  it  in  me  where  it  burnt, 

Like  those  hot  fire-seeds  of  creation  held 

In    Jove's    clenched    i)alm    before    the    worlds   were 

sown — 
But  I — I  was  not  Juno  even  1  my  hand 
Was  shut  in  weak  convulsion,  woman's  ill, 

And  when  I  yearned  to  loose  a  finger lo,' 

The  nerve  revolted.     'Tis  the  same" even  now  : 
This  hand  may  never,  haply,  open  large, 
Before  the  spark  is  quenched,  or  the  palm  charred, 
To  prove  the  power  not  else  than  by  the  pain. 

It  burns,  it  burnt— my  whole  life  burnt  with  it. 
And  light,  not  sunlight  and  not  torchlight,  flashed 
My  steps  out  throutih  the  slow  and  di^fcult  road. 
I  had  grown  distrustful  of  too  forward  Sprino-s, 
The  season's  bof)ks  in  drear  significance 
Of  morals,  dropping  round  me.     Lively  books? 
The  ash  has  livelier  verdure  than  the  yew  ; 
And  yet  the  yew's  green  longer,  and  alone 
Found  worthy  of  the  holy  Christmas  time. 
We'll  plant  more  3'ews  if  possible,  albeit 
We  plant  the  graveyards  with  them. 

Day  and  night 
1  worked  my  rhythmic  thought,  and  furrowed  up 
Both  watch  and  slumber  with  long  lines  of  life 
Which  did  not  suit  their  season.     The  rose  fell 
From  either  cheek,  my  eyes  globed  luminous 
Through  orbits  of  blue  shadow,  and  my  pulse 
Would  shudder  along  the  purple-veined  wrist 
Like  a  shot  bird.      Youth's  stern,  set  face  to  face 
\Alth  youth's  ideal:  and  when  people  came 
And  said,  "You  work  too  much,  you  are  looking  ill," 
[  smiled  for  pity  of  them  who  pitied  me. 


238  AURORA     LEIGH. 

And  thought  I  should  be  better  soon  perhaps 

For  those  ill  looks.     Observe — "I,"  means  in  youth 

Just  I  .  .  the  conscious  and  eternal  soul 

"With  all  its  ends — and  not  the  outside  life, 

The  parcel-man,  the  doublet  of  the  flesh, 

The  so  much  liver,  lung,  iutegumeut, 

Whicli  makes  the  sum  of  "  1  "  hereafter,  when 

"World-talkers  talk  of  doing  well  or  ill. 

/  prosper,  if  I  gain  a  step,  although 

A  nail  then  pierced  my  foot:  altliongh  mj'  brain 

Embracing  any  truth,  froze  paralyzed, 

/  prosper.     I  but  change  my  instrument ; 

I  break  the  spade  off,  digging  deep  for  gold, 

And  catch  the  mattock  up. 

I  worked  on,  on. 
Through  all  the  bristling  fence  of  nights  and  daj's 
Which  hedges  time  in  from  the  eternities, 
I  struggled,  .   .  never  stopped  to  note  the  stakes 
Which  hurt  me  in  my  course.     The  midnight  oil 
Would    stink   sometimes  ;    there   came    some   vulgaj 

needs : 
I  had  to  live,  that  therefore  I  might  work. 
And,  being  but  poor,  I  was  constrained,  for  life, 
To  work  with  one  hand  for  the  booksellei-s. 
While  working  with  the  other  for  myself 
And  art.     You  swim  with  feet  as  well  as  hands, 
Or  make  small  wa}'.     I  apprehended  this — 
In  England,  no  one  lives  by  verse  that  lives; 
And,  apprehending,  I  resolved  by  prose 
To  make  a  space  to  sphere  my  living  verse. 
I  wrote  for  cyclopaedias,  magazines. 
And  weekly  i)apers,  holding  up  my  name 
To  keep  it  from  the  mud.     1  learnt  the  use 
Of  the  editorial  "  we"  in  a  review. 
As  courtly  ladies  the  fine  trick  of  trains, 
And  swept  it  grandly  through  the  oj)en  doors 
As  if  one  could  not  pass  through  doors  at  all 
Save  so  encumbered.     I  wrote  tales  beside, 
Carved  man}'  an  article  on  cherr^'-stones 
To  suit  light  readers — something  in  the  lines 
Revealing,  it  was  said,  the  mallethand, 
])ut  that,  I'll  i>ever  vouch  for.     AVhat  you  do 
For  bread,  will  taste  of  common  grain,  not  grapes, 
Although  you  have  a  vineyard  in  Champagne — 
Much  less  in  Nephelococcygia, 
As  minj  was,  peradventure. 


AURORA      LEIGH.  23'l 

Ilavino-  bread 
For  just  so  many  da^vs,  just  breathing  room 
For  bod}'  and  verse,  J  stood  up  straioht  aiul  worked 
My  veritable  work.      And  as  tlie  soul 

Which  grows  within  a  eliild.  makes  the  child  urow . 

Or  as  ttte  fiery  sap,  the  touch  from  God, 

Careering  through  a  tree,  dilates  the  bark, 

And  roughs  witli  scale  and  knob,  before  it  strikes 

The  summer  foliage  out  in  a  green  flame 

80  life,  in  dee])euing  with  me,  deepened  all 
\The  course  I  took,  the  work  I  did.     Indeed, 
The  academic  law  convinced  of  sin  ; 
The  critics  cried  out  on  the  falling  off. 
Regretting  the  first  manner.     But  I  felt 
My  heart's  life  throbl)ing  in  my  verse  to  shov 
It  lived,  it  also — certes  incomplete, 
Disordered  with  all  Adam  in  the  blood. 
But  even  its  very  tnmors,  warts,  and  wens, 
Still  organized  I)}',  and  impljing  life. 

A  lady  called  U[)on  me  on  such  a  day. 

She  had  the  low  voice  of  your  English  dames, 

Unused,  it  seems,  to  need  rise  half  a  note 

To  catch  attention — and  their  quiet  mood, 

As  if  the}'  lived  too  high  above  the  earth 

For  that  to  put  them  out  in  anything: 

So  gentle,  because  verily  so  proud  ; 

So  wary  and  afeard  of  hurting  3'^ou, 

By  no  means  that  you  are  not  read}'  vile, 

But  that  they  would  not  touch  you  with  their  foot 

To  push  you  to  your  place ;  so  self-posse.-^sed 

Yet  gracious  and  conciliating,  it  takes 

An  etfort  in  their  presence  to  speak  truth: 

You  know  the  sort  of  woman — brilliant  stuff, 

And  out  of  nature.     "  Lady  Waldemar." 

She  said  her  name  quite  simply,  as  if  it  meant 

Not  much  indeed,  but  something — took  my  hands, 

And  smiled,  as  if  her  smile  could  help  my  case. 

And  dropped  her  eyes  on  me,  and  let  them  melt. 

"  Is  this,"  she  said,  "  the  Muse  ?  " 

"  No  sybil  even,'' 
I  answered,  "since  she  fails  to  guess  the  cause 
Which  taxed  3'ou  with  this  visit,  madam." 

"Gopd.  " 
She  said,  "  I  like  to  be  sincere  at  once  ; 
Pe/'haps,  if  I  had  found  a  literal  Muse, 


240  AURORA     LEIGH. 

The  visit  might  have  taxed  me.     As  it  is, 
You  wear  3'our  blue  so  chieflj-  in  3'our  eyes, 
My  fair  Aurora,  in  a  frank  good  yvay, 
It  comforts  me  entirely  for  your  fame, 
As  well  as  for  the  trouble  of  nij-  ascent 
To  this  01>mpus." 

There,  a  silver  laugh 
Ran  rippling  through  her  quickened  little  breathe 
The  steep  stair  somewhat  justified. 

"But  still 
Your  ladyship  has  left  me  curious  why 
You  dared  the  risk  of  finding  the  said  Muse  ?  " 

"Ah — keep  me,  notwithstanding,  to  the  point, 

Like  any  pedant.     Is  the  blue  in  eyes 

As  awful  as  in  stockings,  after  all, 

T  wonder,  that  you'd  have  my  business  out 

Before  I  brea/the — exact  the  epic  plunge 

In  spite  of  gasps  ?     Well,  naturally  you  think 

I've  come  here,  as  the  lion-hunters  go 

To  deserts,  to  secure  you,  with  a  trap, 

For  exhibition  in  my  drawing-rooms 

On  zoologic  soirees  ?     Not  in  the  least. 

Roar  softl3'  at  me;  I  am  frivolous, 

I  dare  say  ;  I  have  played  at  lions,  too, 

Like  other  women  of  ni}-  class — but  now 

I  meet  my  lion  simplj'  as  Androcles 

Met  his  .  .  when  at  his  merc^'." 

So,  she  bent 
Her  head,  as  queens  may  mock — then  lifting  up 
Her  eyelids  with  a  real  grave  queenly  look, 
Which  ruled,  and  would  not  spare,  not  even  herself— 
"  I  think  you  have  a  cousin  : — Romney  Leigh." 

"  You  bring  a  word  from  him  ?  " — my  eyes  le^pt  up 
To  the  very  height  of  hers — "  a  word  from  Jiim  ?  " 

"  I  bring  a  word  about  him,  actually. 

But  first" — she  pressed  me  with  her  urgent  eyes — 

"  You  do  not  love  him — 3'ou  ?  " 

"  You're  frank  at  least 
In  putting  questions,  madam,"  I  replied. 
"  I  love  my  cousin  cousinly — no  more." 

"  I  guessed  as  much.     I'm  ready  to  be  frame 
In  answering  also,  if  you'll  question  me, 


AURORA      LEIGH.  241 

Or  even  with  sonicthing  less.     You  stand  outside, 
You  :ii;tist  women,  of  the  common  sex; 
You  share  not  with  us,  and  exceed  us  so 
Pciliaps  Iw  what  ^^ou're  mulcted  in,  3'our  hearts 
Ik'iuii  starved  to  make  your  heads  :  so  run  the  old 
Traditions  of  you.     I  can  therefore  speak, 
AV^ithout  the  natural  shame  which  creatures  feel 
Wlien  speaking  on  their  level,  to  their  like. 
There's  many  a  papist  slie,  would  ratlier  die 
Than  own  to  her  maid  she  put  a  ribbon  on 
To  catch  the  indilferent  eye  of  such  a  man — 
AVho  yet  would  count  adulteries  on  her  beads 
At  holy  Mary's  shrine,  and  never  blush; 
Because  the  saints  are  so  far  olf,  we  lo-^^e 
All  modesty  before  them.     Thus,  to-day. 
'Tis  /,  love  Romney  Leigh." 

"  Forbear,"  I  cried. 
*'  If  here's  no  Muse,  still  less  is  any  saint ; 
Nor  even  a  friend,  that  Lady  Waldemar 
Sould  make  confessions  "  .  . 

"  That's  unkindly  said 
If  no  friend,  what  forbids  to  make  a  friend 
To  join  to  our  confession  ere  we  have  done  ? 
I  love  your  cousin.     If  it  seems   unwise 
To  say  so,  it's  still  foolisher  (we're  frank) 
To  feel  so.     My  first  husband  left  me  young, 
And  pretty  enough,  so  please  3'ou,  and  rich  enough, 
To  keep  my  booth  in  May-fair  with  the  rest 
To  happy  issues.     There  are  marquises 
Would  serve  seven  j^ears  to  call  me  wife,  I  knon^ : 
And,  after  seven,'  I  might  consider  it. 
For  there's  some  comfort  in  a  marquisate 
When  all's  said — yes,  but  after  the  seven  years  ; 
I,  now,  love  Romney.     You  put  up  your  lip, 
So  like  a  Leigh  !  so  like  him  ! — Pardon  me, 
I  am  well  aware  I  do  not  derogate 
In  loving  Romney  Leigh.     The  name  is  good, 
The  means  are  excellent;  but  the  man,  the  man  — 
Heaven  help  us  both — I  am  near  as  mad  as  he, 
In  loving  such  an  one." 

She  slowly  wrung 
Her  heavy  ringlets  till  they  touched  her  smile, 
As  reasonably  sorry  for  herself; 
And  thus  continued — 

"  Of  a  truth,  Miss  Leigh, 
I  have  n»)<..  without  a  struggle,  come  to  this. 


242  AURORA      LEIGH. 

I  took  a  master  iu  the  German  tongue, 

I  gamed  a  little,  went  to  Paris  twice  ; 

But,  after  all,  this  love  !  .  .  .  30a  eat  of  love, 

And  do  as  vile  a  thing  as  if  3'ou  ate 

Of  garlic — whicli,  whatever  else  you  eat, 

Tastes  nniforml}^  acrid,  till  ,your  peach 

Reminds  3'ou  of  3'our  onion  !     Am  I  coarse 

"Well,  love's  coarse,  nature's   coarse — ah,   there's  the 

rub ! 
We  fair  fine  ladies,  who  park  out  our  lives 
From  common  sheep-paths,  cannot  help  the  crows 
From  fl3'iiig  over — we're  as  natural  slill 
As  Blovvsalimla.     Drape  us  perfectly 
In  Lyons'  velvet^we  are  not,  for  that, 
Iia3'-ftgures,  like  3'ou  !  Ave  have  hearts  within. 
Warm,  live,  improvident,  indecent  hearts, 
As  readv  for  distracted  ends  and  acts 
As  any  distressed  sempsti'ess  of  them  all 
That  IvomneN'  groans  and  toils  for.     We  catch  love 
And  other  fevers,  in  the  vulgar  wa3\ 
Love  will  not  be  outwitted  1)3-  our  vvit, 
Xor  outrun  by  our  equipages  : — mine 
Persisted,  spite  of  efforts.     All  m3'  cards 
Turned  up  but  Romne3'  Leigh  ;  my  German  stopped 
At  germane  Wertherism  ;  my   Paris  rounds 
Returned  me  from  the  Champ  El3^sees  just 
A  ghost,  and  sighing  like  Dido's.     I  came  home 
Uncured — convicted  rather  to  m3^self 
Of  being  in  love  ,  .  in  love!  That's  coarse  you'll  say 
I'm  talking  garlic." 

Coldl3^  I  replied. 
"  Apologize  for  atheism,  not  love  ! 
For  me,  I  do  believe  in  love,  and  God. 
I  know  my  cousin  :  Lad3'  Waldemar 
I  know  not :  yet  I  ?a3'  as  much  as  this — 
Whoever  loves  him,  let  her  not  excuse 
But  cleanse  herself,  that,  loving  such  a  man. 
She  may  not  do  it  with  such  unworth3^  love 
He  cannot  stoop  and  take  it." 

"  That  is  said 
Austerel3%  like  a  3'outhful  prophetess. 
Who  knits  her  brows  across  her  pretty  eyes 
To  keep  them  back  from  following  the  gray  flight 
Of  doves  between  the  temple-C(dumns.     Dear, 
Be  kinder  with  me.     Let  us  two  be  friends. 
I'm  a  mere  woman — the  more  weak,  perLaps 


AURORA     LEIGH.  24S 

Through  being  so  proufl  ;  you're  better ;  as  for  hiin, 
.     He's  best.     Indeed  he  builds  bis  goodness  up 
_y     So  high,  it  toi)[)les  down  to  the  other  side, 
i      And  makes  a  sort  of  badness ;  there's  the  irorst 

I  have  to  say  against  3'our  cousin's  best ! 

And  so  be  niihl,  Aurora,  with  my  worst, 

Por  his  salve,  if  not  mine." 

"  I  own  myself 

Incredulous  of  confidence  like  this 

Availing  him  or  you." 

"  I,  worthy  of  him  ? 

In  your  sense  I  am  not  so — let  it  pass 

And  3^et  I  save  him  if  I  marry  him ; 

Let  that  pass  too." 

"  Pass,  pass,  we  play  police 

Upon  my  cousin's  life,  to  indicate 

What  may  or  may  not  pass  ?"  I  cried.     "  He  knows 

What's  worthy  of  him  ;  the  choice  remains  with  him, 

And  what  he  chooses,  act  or  wife,  I  think 

I  shall  not  call  unworthy,  I,  for  one." 

"  'Tis  somewhat  rashly  said,"  she  answered  slow 

"Now  let's  talk  reason,  though  we  talk  of  love. 

Your  cousin  Komney  Leigh's  a  monster!  there. 

The  word's  out  fairly  ;  let  me  prove  the  fact. 

We'll  take,  say,  that  most  perfect  of  antiques, 

They  call  the  Genius  of  the  Vatican, 

Which  seems  too  beauteous  to  endure  itself 

In  this  mixed  world,  and  fasten  it  for  once 

Upon  the  torso  of  the  Drunken  Fawn, 

(Who  might  limp  surely,  if  he  did  not  dance,) 

Instead  of  Buonarroti's  mask:  what  then? 
/  We  show  the  sort  of  monster  Romney  is, 
I  With  god-like  virtue  and  heroic  aims 
T Subjoined  to  limping  possibilities 
j  Of  mismade  human  nature.     Grant  the  man 

Twice  godlil<e,  twice  heroic — still  he  limps. 

And  here's  the  point  we  come  to." 

"  Pardon  me, 

But,  Lady  Waldemar,  the  point's  the  thing 

We  never  come  to." 

"  Caustic,  insolent 

At  need  I     I  like  you  " — (there,  she  took  my  hands) 

"And  now  my  lioness,  help  Androcles, 

For  all  your  roaring.     Help  me!  for  myself 

I  would  not  say  so— but  for  him.     He  limps 

So  certainly'',  he'll  fall  into  the  pit 


244  AURORA     LEIQH. 

A  week  hence — so  I  lose  him — so  he  is  lost! 
And  when  he's  fairly  married,  he  a  Leigh, 
To  a  girl  of  doubtful  life,  undoubtful  bi'^-th, 
^   Starved  out  in  London,  till  her  coarse-grained  hands 
Are  whiter  than  her  morals — j'^ou,  for  one, 
May  call  his  choice  most  worth}'." 

"  Married  !  lost ! 
JTe,  .  .  .  llomnej' !" 

"  Ah,  you're  moved  at  last,"  she  said. 
"  These  monsters,  set  out  in  the  open  sun, 
Of  course  throw  monstrous  shadows:  those  who  think 
Awry,  will  scarce  act  straightly.     Who  but  he  ? 
And  who  but  you  can  wonder?     He  lias  been  mad, 
The  whole  world  knows,  since  first,  a  nominal  man, 
He  soured  the  proctors,  tried  the  gownsmen's  wits, 
With  equal  scorn  of  triangles  and  wine, 
And  took  no  honors,  yet  was  honorable. 
They'll  tell  you  he  lost  count  of  Homer's  ships 
In  Melbourne's  poor-bills,  Ashley's  factory  bills — 
Ignored  the  Aspasia  we  all  dared  to  praise, 
For  other  women,  dear,  we  could  not  name 
Because  we're  decent.     Well,  he  had  some  right 
On  his  side  probably ;  men  alwa3-s  have. 
Who  go  absurdly  wi'ong.     The  living  boor 
Who  brews  your  ale,  exceeds  in  vital  worth 
Dead  Caesar  who  '  stops  bungholes  '  in  tlie  ca.sk  ; 
And  also,  to  do  good  is  excellent. 
For  persons  of  his  income,  even  to  boors  : 
I  sympathize  with  all  such  things.      But  he 
Went  mad  upon  them  .  .  madder  and  more  mad. 
From  college  times  to  these — as,  going  down  hill. 
The  faster  still,  the  farther!  you  must  know  ' 
Your  Leigh  by  heart ;  he  has  sown  his  black  young 

curls 
With  bleaching  cares  of  half  a  million  men 
Already.     If  you  do  not  starve,  or  sin, 
You're  nothing  to  him.     Pay  the  income-tax, 
And   break    your    heart    upon't.  .  .  he'll   scarce    be 

touched ; 
But  come  upon  the  parish,  qualified 
For  the  parish  stocks,  and  Romney  will  be  there 
To  call  3'ou  brother,  sister,  or  perhaps 
A  tenderer  name  still.     Had  I  any  chance 
With  Mister  Leigli,  who  am  Lady  Waldemar, 
And  never  committed  felon}- ?" 

"  You  speak 
Too  bitterly,"  I  said,  "  for  the  literal  truth." 


AURORA     LEiari.  '24.'5 

^    "  Th(!  truth  is  bitter.     ITere's  a  man  who  looks 
Forever  on  the  ground  !  you  must  be  low  ; 
Or  else  a  pictured  ceiling  overhead, 
Good  painting  thrown  away.     For  me,  I've  done 
What  women  ma}',  (we're  somewhat  limited, 
AVe  modest  women)  but  I've  done  m^'  best. 
— How  men  are  perjured  wlien  the}'  swear  our  eyes 
Have  meaning  in  them!  tliey're  just  blue  or  brown — ■ 
They  just  can  drop  tlieir  lids  a  little.     In  fact, 
^line  did  more,  for  I  read  hall'  Fourier  through, 
I'roudhon,  Considerant,  and  Louis  Blanc, 
"NA'ilh  various  other  of  his  socialists  ; 
And  if  I  had  been  a  fathom  less  in  love, 
Had  cured  myself  with  gaping.     As  it  was, 
I  quoted  from  them  prettil}'  enough, 
Perliajjs,  to  make  them  sound  half  rational 
To  a  saner  man  tlian  he,  whene'er  we  talked, 
(For  whicli  I  dodged  occasion) — learnt  by  heart 
His  speeches  in  the  Commons  and  elsewhere 
Upon  the  social  question  ;  heaped  reports 
Of  wicked  women  and  penitentiaries, 
On  all  ra}'  tables,  with  a  place  for  Sue  ; 
And  gave  mj-  name  to  swell  subscription-lists 
Toward  keei)ing  up  the  sun  at  niglits  in  heaven, 
And  othei"  possible  ends.     All  things  I  did. 
Except  the  impossible  .  .  such  as  wearing  gowns 
Provided  by  the  Ten  Hours'  movement !  there, 
I    stopped — we    must   stop   somewhere.       He,    mean 

while. 
Unmoved  as  the  Indian  tortoise  'neath  the  world, 
Let  all  that  noise  go  on  upon  his  back  ; 
He  would  not  disconcert  or  throw  me  out; 
'Twas  well  to  see  a  woman  of  my  class 
With  such  a  dawn  of  conscience.     For  the  heart 
Made  firewood  for  his  sake,  and  flaming  up 
To  his  very  ftice  .  .  he  warmed  liis  feet  at  it; 
But  deigned  to  let  my  carriage  stop  him  short 
In  park  or  street — he  leaning  on  the  door. 
With  news  of  the  committee  which  sat  last 
On  pickpockets  at  suck." 

"  You  jest — you  jest." 

"  As  martyrs  jest,  dear,  (if  you've  read  their  lives) 
Upon  the  axe  which  kills  them.     When  all's  done 
By  me,  .  ,  for  him — ^j'ou'll  ask  him  presontly 


•246  AURORA     LEIQII. 

The  color  of  1113-  hair — he  cannot  tell, 

Or  answers  '  dark  '  at  random — while,  be  sire, 

He's  absolute  on  the  figure,  five  or  ten, 

Of  m}-  last  subscription.     Is  it  bearable, 

And  I  a  woman  ? " 

"Is  it  reparable, 
Though  /  were  a  man  ?  " 

"  I  know  not.    Tliat's  to  })rove 
But,  first,  this  shameful  marriage." 

"  Ay  ?  "  I  cried, 
"  Then  really  there's  a  marriage  ?  " 

"  Yesterday 
Iheld  him  fast  upon  it.     '  Mister  Leigh,' 
Said  I,  'shut  up  a  thing,  it  makes  more  noise. 
The  boiling  town  keeps  secrets  ill ;  I've  known 
Yours  since  last  week.     Forgive  my  knowledge  so: 
You  feel  I'm  not  the  woman  of  the  world 
The  world  thinks  ;  30U  have  borne  with  me  before, 
And  used  me  in  your  noble  work,  our  work, 
And  now  you  shall  not  cast  me  off"  because 
You're  at  the  difficult  point,  the  join.     'Tis  true 
Even  I  can  scarce  admit  the  cogency 
Of  such  a  marriage  .  .  where  you  do  not  love, 
(Except  the  class)  yet  marry  and  throw  yonv  name 
Down  to  the  gutter,  for  a  fire-escape 
To  future  generations  !  it's  sublime, 
A  great  example — a  true  Genesis 
Of  the  opening  social  era.     But  take  heed  ; 
This  virtuous  act  must  have  a  patent  weight, 
Or  loses  half  its  virtue.      Make  it  tell, 
Interpret  it,  and  set  in  the  light, 
And  do  not  muffle  it  in  a  winter-cloak 
As  a  vulgar  bit  of  shame — as  if,  at  best, 
A  Leigh  had  made  a  mi.-alliance  and  blushed 
A    Howard   should   know   it.'     Then,  I  pressed  him 

more — 
'  He  would  not  choose,'  I  said,  '  that  even  his  kin,  .  , 
Aurora  Leigh,  even  .  .  should  conceive  his  act 
Less  sacrifice,  more  appetite.'     At  which 
He  grew  so  pale,  dear,  .  .  to  the  lips  I  knew, 
I  had  touched  him.    '  Do  you  know  her,'  he  enquired, 
'  M3'  cousin  Aurora?  '     'Yes,'  I  said,  and  lied, 
(But  truh^  we  all  know  j-on  by  your  books) 
And  so  I  offered  to  come  straight  to  you, 
Explain  the  subject,  justify  the  cause. 
And  take  you  with  me  to  St.  Margaret's  Court 


AURORA     LEIGH.  ^47 

To  see  thiii  miracle,  this  IVrarian  Erie. 

This  diovoi-'s  daughter  (she's  not  pretty,  he  swcal 

Upon  whose  finger,  exquisitely  i)rieked 

By  a  hundred  needles,  we're  to  liang  the  tie 

'Twixt  class  and  class  in  England — thus,  indeei' 

V>y  sueh  a  presence,  yours  and   mine,  to  lift 

The  match  up  from  the  doubtful   place.     At  or 

lie  thanked  me,  sighing  .  .  mnrmui'ed  to  himscif, 

'She'll    do    it   perhnps;    she's    noble' — thanke<l    xr '^ 

twice, 
And  promised,  as  my  guerdon,  to  put  off 
His  marriage  for  a  month." 

I  answered  then. 
"  r  understand  3'our  drift  imperfectly. 
You  wish  to  lead  me  to  my  cousin's  betrothed. 
To  touch  her  hand  if  worthy,  and  hold  her  hand 
If  feeble,  thus  to  justify  his  match. 
So  be  it  then.     But  how  this  serves  your  ends, 
And  how  the  strange  confession  of  your  love 
Serves  this,  1  have  to  learn — I  cannot  see.'' 

She  knit  her  restless  forehead.      "  Then,  despite 

Aurora,  that  most  radiant  morning  name. 

You're  dull  as  au}^  London  afternoon. 

I  wanted  time — and  gained  it — wanted  you, 

And  gain  you  !     You  will  come  and  see  the  girl, 

In  whose  most  prodigal  eyes,  the  lineal  pearl 

And  pride  of  all  your  lofty  race  of  Leighs 

Is  destined  to  solntion.     Authorized 

By  sight  and  knowledge  then,  you'll  speak  your  mini 

And  prove  to  Romney,  in  your  brilliant  way. 

He'll  wrong  the  people  and  posterity 

(Say  such  a  thing  is  bad  for  3'ou  and  rae, 

An<lyou  fail  utterly,)  by  contdnding  thus 

An  execrable  marriage.     J3reak  it  up. 

Disroot  it — peradventure,  presently, 

We'll  plant  a  better  fortune  in  its  place. 

Be  good  to  rae,  Aurora,  scorn  me  less 

For  saying  the  thing  I  should  not.      Well  I  kno^V 

I  should  not.     1  have  kept,  as  others  have, 

The  iron  rule  of  w^omanly  reserve 

In  lip  and  life,  till  now:  I  w^ept  a  week 

Before  I  came  here.''— Ending,  she  was  pale; 

The  last  words,  haughtily  said,  were  treniulons. 

This  palfrey  pranced  in  harness,  arched  her  neck, 

And,  onl}'  by  the  foam  upon  the  bit. 


248  AURORA     LEIGH, 

You  saw  she  champed  against  it. 

Then  I  rose. 
"  I  love  love  !  trutli's  no  cleaner  thing  than  love. 
I  comprehend  a  love  so  fiery  hot 
It  burns  its  natural  veil  of  august  shame, 
And  stands  sublimely'  in  the  nude,  as  chaste 
As  Medicean  Yenus.      But  I  know, 
A  love  that  burns  through   veils,  will  burn  through 

masks, 
And  shrivel  up  treachery.     What,  love  and  liel 
Nay — go  to  the  opera!  your  love's  curable." 

"  I  love  and  lie  ?  "  she  said — "  T  lie,  forsooth  ?  " 

And  beat  her  taper  foot  upon  the  floor. 

And   smiled  against  the  shoe — "  You're   hard,   Miss 

Leigh, 
Unversed  in  current  phrases — Bowling-greens 
Of  poets  are  fresher  than  the  world's  highways 
Forgive  me  that  I  rashly  blew  the  dust 
Which  dims  our  hedges  even,  in  your  eyes, 
And  vexed  3^ou  so  much.     You  find,  probabl3-, 
No  evil  in  this  marriage — rather  good 
Of  innocence,  to  pastoi-alize  in  song: 
Y''ou'll  give  the  bond  your  signature,  perhaps. 
Beneath  the  lady's  mark — indifferent 
That  Komney  choose  a  wife,  could  write  her  namu, 
In  witnessing  he  loved  her." 

'•'  Loved  !  "  I  cried  ; 
"Who  tells  you  that  he  wants  a  wife  to  love? 
He  gets  a  horse  to  use,  not  love,  I  think : 
There's  work  for  wives  as  well — and  after,  straw, 
When  men  are  liberal.     For  myself,  you  err 
Supposin<i-  power  in  me  to  break  this  match. 
I  could  not  do  it,  to  save  Uomne3-'s  life  ; 
And  would  not,  to  save  mine." 

"  You  take  so  it," 
She  said  ;   "'  farewell  then.   Write  your  books  in  peace^ 
As  far  as  may  be  for  some  seci-et  stir 
Now  ol)%1ious  to  me — for,  most  obviousl}'. 
In  coming  hither  I  mistook  the  way," 
Whereat  she  touched  my  hand,  and  bent  her  head, 
And  floated  from  me  like  a  silent  cloud 
That  leaves  the  sense  of  thunder. 

I  drew  breath 
As  hard  as  in  a  sick  room.     After  all 
This  woman  breaks  her  social  system  up 


AURORA      LEIOn.  '2-J9 

For  love,  so  counted — the  love  possible 

To  such — and  lilies  are  still  lilies,  pulled 

By  smutty  hands,  though  spotted  from  their  Mhite; 

And  thus  she  is  better,  haply,  of  her  kind, 

Than  Romney  Leigh,  who  lives  l)y  diagrams, 

And  crosses  out  the  spontaneities 

Of  all  his  individual,  personal  life. 

With  formal  universals.     As  if  man 

^Vei'e  set  upon  a  high  stool  at  a  desk, 

To  keep  God's  books  for  Him,  in  red  and  black, 

And  feel  by  millions!  What,  if  even  God 

Were  chiefly'  God  by  living  out  Himself 

To  an  individualism  of  the  Infinite, 

Eterne,  intense,  profuse — still  throAving  up 

The  golden  spray  of  multitudinous  worlds 

In  measure  to  the  proclive  weight  and  rush 

Of  his  inner  nature — the  spontaneous  love 

Still  proof  and  outflow  of  spontaneous  life  ? 

Then  live,  Aurora  ! 

Two  hours  afterward. 
Within  St.  Margaret's  Court  I  stood  alone. 
Close-veiled.     A  sick  child,  from  an  ague-fit. 
Whose  wasted  right  hand  gambl'ed  'gainst  his  left 
With  an  old  brass  button,  in  a  blot  of  sun, 
Jeered  Aveakl^'  at  me  as  I  passed  across 
The  uneven  pavement ;  while  a  woman,  rouged 
Upon  the  angular  cheek-bones,  kerchief  torn, 
Thin  dangling  locks,  and  flat  lascivious  mouth, 
Cursed  at  a  window,  both  ways,  in  and  out. 
By  turns  some  bed  rid  creature  and  ni3'self — 
"  Lie  still  there,  mother!  liker  the  dead  dog 
You'll  be  to-morrow.     What,  we  pick  our  way. 
Fine  madam,  with  those  damnable  small  feet! 
We  cover  up  our  face  from  doing  good, 
As  if  it  were  our  purse  !     What  brings  you  here, 
My  lady  ?  is't  to  find  my  gentleman 
Who  visits  his  tame  pigeon  in  the  eaves? 
Our  cholera  catch  3'ou  with  its  cramps  and  spasms, 
And  tumble  up  your  good  clothes,  veil  and  all, 
And  turn  your  whiteness  dead-blue."     I  looked  up, 
I  think  I  could  have  walked  through  hell  that  day, 
And  never  flinched.     "  The  dear  Christ  comfort  you,'' 
I  siiid,  "you  must  have  been  most  miserable 
To  be  so  cruel  " — and  I  emptied  out 
My  purse  upon  the  stones  :  when,  as  I  had  cast 
The  last  charm  in  the  caldron,  the  whole  court 


250  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Went  boiling,  bubbling  up,  from  all  its  doors 

And  windows,  with  a  hideous  wail  of  laughs 

And  roar  of  oaths,  and  blows  perhaps  .  .  I  passed 

Too  quickly  for  distinguishing  .  .  and  pushed 

A  little  side-door  hanging  on  a  hinge. 

And  plunged  into  the  dark,  and  groped  and  climbed 

The  long,  steep,  narrow  slair  "twixt  broken  rail 

And  raiklewed  wall  that  let  the  plaster  drop 

To  startle  me  in  the  blackness.     Still,  up,  up! 

So  high  lived  Romne3''s  bride.     I  paused  at  last 

Before  a  low  door  in  the  roof,  and  knocked  ; 

There  came  an  answer  like  a  hurried  dove — 

"  So  soon  ?  can  that  be  Mister  Leigh  ?  so  soon  ?" 

And  as  I  entered,  an  ineffable  face 

Met  mine  upon  the  threshold.     "  Oh,  not  3'ou, 

Not  you!"  .  .  .  the  dropping  of  the  voice  implied, 

"  Then,  if  not  3'^ou,  for  me  not  any  one." 

T  looked  her  in  tbee3'es,  and  held  her  hands, 

And  said,  "I  am  his  cousin — Romuey  Leigh's  ; 

And  here  I'm  come  to  see  my  cousin  too." 

She  touched  me  with  her  face  and  with  her  voice, 

This  daughter  of  the  people.     Such  soft  flowers. 

From  such  rough  roots?  the  people,  under  there, 

Can  sin  so,  curse  so,  look  so,  smell  so  .  .  .  faugh 

Yet  have  such  daughters  ! 

Nowise  beautiful 
Was  Marian  Erie.     She  was  not  white  nor  brown 
But  could  look  either,  like  a  mist  that  changed 
According  to  being  shone  on  more  or  less. 
The  hair,  too,  ran  its  opulence  of  curls 
In  doubt  'twixt  dark  and  bright,  nor  left  you  clear 
To  name  the  color.     Too  much  hair  perhaps 
(I'll  name  a  fault  here)  for  so  small  a  head. 
Which  seemed  to  droop  on  that  side  and  on  this 
As  a  full-blown  rose  uneasy  with  its  weiglit. 
Though  not  a  l)reath  should  trouble  it.     Again, 
The  dimple  in  the  cheek  had  better  gone 
With  redder,  fuller  rounds  :  and  somewhat  large 
The  mouth  was,  though  the  milky  little  teeth 
Dissolved  it  to  so  infantile  a  smile ! 
For  soon  it  smiled  at  me ;  the  eyes  smiled  too, 
But  'twas  as  if  remembering  the}'  had  wept. 
And  knowing  they  should,  some  da}',  weep  again. 

We  talked.     She  told  me  all  her  story  out, 
Which  I'll  re-tell  with  fuller  utterance, 


"  I  li;uise(i  at  last 
Before  a  low  door  in  the  roof,  and  knocked; 
There  came  an  answer  like  a  hurried  dove- 
'  So  soon  ? '  " 


AURORA      LEIGH.  251 

As  colored  and  confii-med  in  afteitimcs 

Uy  others,  and  herself  too.     Marian  Krle 

^Yas  born  npon  the  ledge  of  Malvern  Hill 

To  eastward,  in  a  hut,  hiult  up  at  night 

To  evade  the  landlord's  eye,  of  mud  and  tnrf. 

Still  liable,  if  once  he  looked  that  way, 

To  being  straight  levelled,  scattered  by  his  foot, 

Like  any  other  anthill.     Boi'n,  I  say; 

God  sent  her  to  his  world,  commissioned  right, 

Her  human  testimonials  fully  signed, 

!Not  scant  in  soul — complete  in   lineaments  ; 

But  others  had  to  swindle  her  a  place 

To  wail  in  when  she  had  come.     No  place  for  her, 

By  man's  law  !  born  an  outlaw,  was  this  babe. 

Her  first  cry  in  onr  strange  and  strangling  air, 

When  cast  in  spasms  out  by  the  shuddering  womb, 

Was  -wrong  against  the  social  code — forced  wrong. 

What  business  had  the  bab}*  to  cry  there  ? 

I  tell  her  story  and  grow  passionate. 
She,  Marian,  did  not  tell  it  so,  but  used 
Meek  words  that  made  no  wonder  of  herself 
For  being  so  sad  a  creature.     "  Mister  Leigh 
Considered  trul}'  that  such  things  should  change. 
They  ivill,  in  heaven — but  meantime,  on  the  earth, 
There's  none  can  like  a  nettle  as  a  pink. 
Except  himself.     We're  nettles,  some  of  us, 
And  give  offence  b}'  the  act  of  springing  up  ; 
And,  if  we  leave  the  damp  side  of  the  wall, 
The  hoes,  of  course,  are  on  us."     So  she  said. 
Her  father  earned  his  life  by  random  jobs 
Despised  bj'  steadier  workmen — keeping  swine 
On  commons,  picking  hops,  or  hurr^dng  on 
The  harvest  at  wet  seasons — or,  at  need. 
Assisting  the  Welsh  drovers,  when  a  drove 
Of  startled  horses  i)lunged  into  the  mist 
^  Below  the  mountain-road,  and  sowed  the  wind    I 
With  wandering  neighings.     In  between  the  gaps 
Of  such  irregular  work,  he  drank  and  slept. 
And  cursed  his  wife  because,  the  pence  being  out. 
She  could  not  buy  more  drink.     At  which  she  turned 
(The  worm)  and  beat  her  baby  in  revenge 
For  her  own  broken  heart.     There's  not  a  crime, 
But  takes  its  proper  change  out  still  in  crime. 
If  once  rung  on  the  counter  of  this  world; 
Let  sinners  look  to  it. 


252  ATJRV)RA      LEIGH. 

Yet  the  outcast  child, 
For  whom  the  veiy  mother's  face  forewent 
The  mother's  special  patience,  lived  and  grew; 
Learnt  early  to  cr}'  low,  and  walk  alone, 
With  that  pathetic  vacillating  roll 
Of  the  infant  body  on  the  uncertain  feet, 
(The  earth  being  felt  unstable  ground  so  soon) 
At  which  most  women's  arms  unclose  at  once 
With  irrepressive  instinct.     Thus,  at  three. 
This  poor  weaned  kid  would  run  off  from  the  fold 
This  babe  would  steal  off  from  the  mother's  chair, 
And,  creeping  through  the  golden  walls  of  gorse, 
Would  find  some  keyhole  toward  tlie  secrecy 
Of  Heaven's  high  blue,  and,  nestling  down,  peer  out— 
Oh,  not  to  catch  the  angels  at  their  games. 
She  had  never  heard  of  angels— but  to  gaze 
8he  knew  not  wh}',  to  see  she  knew  not  what, 
A-hungering  outward  from  the  barren  earth 
For  sometiiing  like  a  jo}'.      Slie  liked,  she  said, 
To  dazzle  black  her  sight  against  the  sky, 
For  then,   it  seemed,  some    grand  blind  Love  came 

down. 
And  groped  her  out,  and  clasped  her  witli  a  kiss 
She  learnt  God  that  way,  and  was  beat  for  it 
Whenever  she  went  home — yet  came  again. 
As  surely  as  the  trapped  hare,  getting  free. 
Returns   to  his    form.     This   grand    blind    Love,  sh«t 

said. 
This  skyey  father  and  mother  both  in  one, 
Instructed  her  and  civilized  her  more 
Than  even  the  Sunday-school  did  afterward, 
To  which  a  lady  sent  her  to  learn  books 
And  sit  upon  a  long  bencli  in  a  row 
With  other  children.     Well,  she  laughed  sometimes 
To  see  them  laugh  and  laugh,  and  moil  their  texts  ; 
But  ofter  she  was  sorrowful  with  noise. 
And  wondered  if  their  mothers  beat  them  hard, 
That  ever  the}'  should  laugh  so.     There  was  one 
She  loved  indeed — Rose  Bell,  a  seven  years'  child, 
So  prett}^  and  clever,  who  read  syllables 
^Vh(!n  Marian  was  at  letters  ;  she  would  laugh 
At  nothing — hold  your  finger  up,  she  laughed. 
Then  shook  her  curls  down  on  her  eyes  and  mouth 
To  hide  her  make-mirtli  from  the  sclioolmaster. 
And  Rose's  pelting  glee,  as  frank  as  rain 
On  cherrj'-blossoms,  brightened  Marian  too, 


AURORA     LEIGH.  253 

To  see  anothei*  merry  whom  she  loved. 

Slie  whispered  onee  (the  ehildi'en  side  by  side, 

AVith  miitiuil  arms  entwined  al)Out  their  neeks) 

"  Your  mother  lets  you  laugh  so  ?  "     "  A 3','"  .said  Rose, 

"  She  lets  me.      She  was  dug  into  the  ground 

Six  years  sinee,  I  being  l)ut  a  yearling  wean 

Such  mothers  let  us  play  and  lose  our  time, 

And  never  scold  nor  beat  us  !  don't  you  wish 

You  had  one  like  that?  "    There,  Marian,  breaking  off 

Looked  sudden!}'  in  my  face.     "  Toor  Rose,"  said  she, 

"  I  heard  her  laugh  last  night  in  Oxford  street. 

I'd  pour  out  half  my  blood  to  stop  that  laugh — 

Poor  Rose,  poor  Rose  I  "  said  Marian. 

She  resumed. 
It  tried  her,  when  slie  had  learnt  at  Sunday-school 
What  God  was,  what  he  wanted  IVom  us  all, 
And  how,  in  choosing  sin,  we  vexed   the  Clirist, 
To  go  straight  home  and  hear  her  father  \n\\l 
The  name  down  on  us  from  the  thunder-shelf, 
Then  driidv  awa}'^  his  soul  into  the  dark 
From  seeing  juilgment.      Father,  mother,  home, 
Were  God  and  heaven  reversed  to   her  :  tlje  more 
She  knew  of  Right,  tlie  more  she  guessed  their  wrong  ; 
Her  price  paid  down  for  knowledge,  was  to  know 
The  vileness  of  her  kindred:  through  her  heart, 
I'ler  filial  and  tormented  heart,  henceforth, 
They  struck  their  blows  at  virtue.     Oh,  'tis  hard 
To  learn  you  have  a  father  up  in  heaven 
13y  a  gathering  certain  sense  of  being,  on  earth. 
Still  worse  than  orphaned  :   'tis  too  heav}"-  a  grief, 
The  having  to  thank  God  for  such  a  joy  ! 

And  so  passed  Marian's  life  from  year  to  3^ear. 
Her  parents  took  her  with  them  wlien  they  tramped, 
Dodged  lanes  and  heaths,  frequented  towns  and  fairs 
And  once  went  farther  and  savv  Manchester, 

nd  once  the  sea,  that  blue  end  of  the  world, 
That  fair  scroll-finis  of  a  wicked  book — 
And  twice  a  prison,  back  at  intervals, 
Returning  to  the  hills.     Hills  draw  like  heaven, 
And  stronger  sometimes,  holding  out  their  hands 
To  pull  3'ou  from  the  vile  flats  u[)  to  them  ; 
And  thougli,  perhaps,  these  strollers  still  strolled  back. 
As  sheep  do,  simply  that  they  knew  the  way, 
They  certainly  felt  bettered  unawares 
Kmerging  from  the  social  smut  of  towns 


^- 


254  AURORA      LEIGH. 

To  wipe  their  feet  clean  on  the  mountain  turf. 

In  which  long  wanderings,  Marian  lived  and  learned. 

Endured  and  learned.     The  people  on  the  roads 

Would  stop  and  ask  her  how  her  ej'es  outgrew 

Her  cheeks,  and  if  she  meant  to  lodge  the  birds 

In  all  that  hair;  and  then  the}'^  lifted  her, 

The  miller  in  his  cart,  a  mile  or  twain, 

The  butcher's  boy  on   horsel)ack.      Often,  too. 

The  peddler  stopped,  and  tapped  her  on  the  head 

With  absolute  forefinger,  brown  and  ringed, 

And  asked  if  peradventure  she  could  read  : 

And  when  she  answered  "  a}^"  would  toss  her  down 

Some  stray  odd  volume  from  his  heavy  pack, 

A  Thompson's  Seasons,  mulcted  of  the  Spring, 

Or  half  a  play  of  Shakspeare's,  torn  across: 

(She  had  to  guess  the  bottom  of  a  page 

By  just  the  top  sometimes — as  difficult, 

As,  sitting  on  the  moon,  to  guess  the  earth!) 

Or  else  a  sheaf  of  leaves  (for  that  small   Ruth's 

Small  gleanings)  torn  out  from  the  heart  of  books, 

From  Churchyard  Elegies  and  Edens  Lost, 

From  Burns,  and  Bunyan,  Selkirk,  and  Tom  Jones. 

'Twas  somewhat  hard  to  keep  the  things  distinct. 

And  oft.the  jangling  influence  jarred  the  child 

Like  looking  at  a  sunset  full  of  grace 

Through  a  pothouse  window  while  tiie  drunken  oaths 

Went  on  behind  her  ;  but  she  weeded  out 

Her  l)Ook  leaves,  threw  away  the  leaves  that  hurt, 

(First  tore  them  small,  that  none  should  find  a  wordj 

And  made  a  nosegay  of  the  sweet  and  good 

To  fold  within  her  breast,  and  pore  upon 

At  broken  moments  of  the  noontide  glare. 

When  leave  was  given  her  to  untie  her  cloak 

And  rest  upon  the  dust,y  roadside  bank 

From  the  highway's  dust.      Or  oft,  the  journey  done, 

Some  city  friend  would  lead   her  b^'  the  hand 

To  hear  a  lecture  at  an  institute  : 

And  thus  she  had  grown,  this  Marian  Erie  of  ours, 

To  no  book-learning — she  was  ignorant 

Of  authors — not  in  the  earshot  of  the  things 

Out-spoken  o'er  the  heads  of  common  men, 

By  men  who  are  uncommon — but  within 

The  cadenced  hum  of  such,  and  capal)le 

Of  catching  from  the  fringes  of  the  wind 

Some  fragmentary  phrases,  here  and  there, 

Of  that  fine  music — which,  being  carried  in 


AURORA     LEIGH.  2i.5 

To  her  soul,  had  reproduced  its«jlF  afresh 
In  finer  motions  of  the  li[)S  and  lids. 

She  said,  in  speaking  of  it,  "  If  a  flower 
Were  thi-own  _you  out  of  heaven  at  intervals, 
You'd  soon  attain  to  a  trick  of  looking  up — 
And  so  with  her.''     She  counted  me  her  years, 
Till  /  felt  old  ;  and  then  she  counted  me 
Her  sorrowful  pleasures,  till  1  felt  ashamed. 
She  told  me  she  was  almost  glad  and  calm 
On  such  and  such  a  season  ;  sat  and  sewed, 
With  no  one  to  break  n\)  her  cr^-stal  thoughts  : 
While  rhymes  from  loveh'  poems  span  around 
Their  ringing  circles,  of  ecstatic  tune, 
Beneath  the  moistened  finger  of  the  Hour. 
Her  ijarents  called  her  a  strange,  sickly-  child 
Not  good  Tor  much,  and  given  to  sulk  and  stare 
And  smile  into  the  hedges  and  the  clouds, 
And  tremble  if  one  shook  her  from  her  fit 
By  any  blow  or  word  even.     Out-door  jobs 
Went  ill  with  her ;  and  household  quiet  work. 
She  was  not  born  to.     Had  they  kept  the  north. 
They  might  have  had  their  pennyworth  out  of  her. 
Like  other  parents,  in  the  factories; 
(Your  children  work  for  3'ou,  not  you  for  them. 
Or  else  they  better  had  been  choked  with  air 
V^The  first  breath  drawn  ;)  but,  in  this  tramping  life, 
Was  nothing  to  be  done  with  such  a  child, 
But  tramp  and  tramp.      And  yet  she  knitted  hose 
Not  ill.  and  was  not  dull  at  needlework; 
And  all  tlie  country  people  gave  her  pence 
For  darning  stockings  past  their  natural  age, 
And  patching  petticoats  from  old  to  new, 
And  other  light  wcn'k  done  for  thrifty  wives. 

One  day,  said  Marian — the  sun  shone  that  da}' — 

Her  mother  had  been  badly  beat,  and  felt 

The  bruises  sore  about  her  wretched  soul 

(That  must  have  been)  :  she  came  in  suddenl}' 

And  snatching,  in  a  sort  of  breathless  rage. 

Her  daughter's  headgear  comb,  let  down  the  hair 

Upon  her.  like  a  sudden  waterfall, 

And  drew  her  drenched  and  passive,  b}'  the  arm,  \ 

Outside  the  hut  they  lived  in.      When  the  child 

Could  clear  her  blinded  lace  from  all  that  stream 

Of  tresses  .  .  there,  a  man  stood,  with  beasts'  ejes, 


256  AURORA     LEIGH. 

That  seemed  as  the\'  would  swallow  her  alive, 
Complete  in  body  and  spirit,  hair  and  all — 
With  burning  stertorous  breath  that  hurt  her  cheek, 
He  breatlied  so  near.     The  mother  held  her  tight, 
Saying  hard  between  her  teeth — "  Why  wench,   why 

wench, 
The  squire  speaks  to  you  now — the  squire's  too  good 
He  means  to  set  j'ou  up,  and  comfort  us. 
Be  mannerly  at  least."     The  child  turned  round. 
And  looked  up  piteous  in  the  mother's  face, 
(Be  sure  that  mother's  death-bed  will  not  want 
Another  devil  to  damn,  tiian  such  a  look)  .  . 
"Oh,    mother!"      then,    with    desperate     glance    to 

heaven, 
"  God,  free  me  from  my  mother,"  she  shrieked  out, 
"These  mothers  are  too  dreadful."     And,  with  force 
As  |)assionate  as  fear,  she  tore  her  hands, 
Like  lilies  from  the  rocks,  from  hers  and  his. 
And  sprang  down,  bounded  headlong  down  the  steep, 
Away  from  both — away,  if  possible, 
As  far  as  God— away  !     They  yelled  at  her, 
As  famished  hounds  at  a  hare.     She  heard  them  ^ell, 
She  heard  her  name  hiss  after  her  from  the  hills. 
Like  shot   from  guns.     Oii,  on.     And   now  she   had 

cast 
The  voices  olf  with  the  uplands.      On.     Mad  fear 
Was  running  in  her  feet  and  killing  the  ground  ; 
The  white  roads  curled  as  if  she  burnt  them  up, 
The  green  fields  melted,  wayside  trees  fell  back 
To  make  room  for  her.     Then,  her  head  grew  vexed. 
Trees,  fields,  turned  on  her,  and  ran  after  her ; 
She  heard  the  quick  pants  of  the  hills  behind. 
Their  keen  air  pricked  her  neck.     She  had  lost  her 

feet. 
Could  run  no  more,  yet,  somehow,  went  as  fast — 
The  horizon,  red,  'twixt  steeples  in  the  east, 
So  sucked  her  forward,  forward,  while  her  heart 
Kept  swelling,  swelling,  till  it  swelled  so  big 
It  seemed  to  till  her  body ;  then  it  burst. 
And  overflowed  the  world  and  swamped  the  light, 
"  And   now   I    am   dead  and  safe,"  thought   Marian 

Erie- 
She  had  dropped,  she  had  fainted. 

"W' hen  the  sense  returned, 
The    night   had    passed — not    life's    night.     She   was 

'oirare 


AURORA      LEIGH.  O.JT 

Of  heavy  tumbling  motions,  creaking  wheels, 

The  driver  sliouting  to  the  lazy  team 

That  swung  their  rankling  bells  against  her  brain  ; 

While,  through  the  wagon's  coverture  and  chinks 

The  cruel  ^-ellow  morning  pecked  at  her 

iUive  or  dead,  upon  the  straw  inside — 

At  which  her  soul  ached  back  into  the  dark 

And  prn3'ed  "no  more  of  that."     A  waggoner 

Had  lonnd  her  in  a  ditch  beneath  the  moon, 

As  white  as  moonsliine,  save  for  the  oozing  blood. 

At  lirst  he  thought  her  dead  :  but  when  he  had  wiped 

The  mouth  and  heard  it  sigh,  lie  raised  her  up, 

And  laid  her  in  his  wagon  in  the  straw, 

And  so  conve3-ed  her  to  the  distant  town 

To  which  his  business  called  himself,  and  left 

That  heap  of  misery  at  the  hospital. 

She  stirred  ; — the   place  seemed  new  and   strange  as 

death. 
The    white   straight   bed,    with    others    straight    and 

white, 
Like  graves  dug  side  by  side,  at  measured  lengths, 
And  quiet  people  walking  in  and  out 
With  wonderful  low  voices  and  soft  steps, 
And  apparitional  equal  care  for  each. 
Astonished  her  with  order,  silence,  law: 
And  when  a  gentle  hand  held  out  a  cup, 
She  took  it,  as  30U  do  at  sacrament. 
Half  awed,  half  melted — not  being  used,  indeed, 
To  so  much  love  as  makes  the  form  of  love 
And  courtes}^  of  manners.     Delicate  drinks 
And  rare  white  bread,  to  which  some  d3'ing  eyes 
Were  turned  in  observation.     0  m3^  God, 
How  sick  we  must  be,  ere  we  make  men  just ! 
I  think  it  frets  the  saints  in  heaven  to  see 
Ilo"\v  many  desolate  creatures  on  the  earth 
Have  learnt  the  simple  dues  of  fellowship 
And  social  comfort,  in  a  hospital. 
As  Marian  did.     She  lay  there,  stunned,  half  tranced, 
And  wished,  at  intervals  of  growing  sense, 
Slie  might  be  sicker  yet,  if  sickness  made 
The  world  so  marvellous  kind,  the  air  so  hushed. 
And  all  her  wake-time  quiet  as  a  sleep; 
For  now  she  understood,  (as  such  tilings  were) 
IIow  sickness  ended  ver3-  oft  in  heaven, 
Among  the  unspokes  raptures.     Yet  more  sick, 


258  AURORA     LEIGH. 

And  surelier  happ3^     Then  she  dropped  her  lids, 
And,  fohling  up  her  hands  as  flowers  at  night, 
Would  lose  no  moment  of  the  blessed  time. 

8he  lay  and  seethed  in  fever  many  weeks ; 

But  youtli  was  strong  and  overcame  the  test; 

Revolted  soul  and  flesh  were  reconciled 

And  fetclied  back  to  the  necessary  day 

And  daylight  duties.     She  could  creep  about 

The  long  bare  rooms,  and  stare  out  drearilj^ 

From  an}'  narrow  window  on  the  street, 

Till  some  one,  who  had  nursed  her  as  a  friend, 

Said  coldly  to  her,  as  an  enem}', 

"  She  had  leave  to  go  next  week,  being  well  enough," 

While    only    her    heart    ached.     "  Go    next    week," 

thought  she, 
"Next  week!  how  would  it  be  with  her  next  week, 
Let  out  into  that  terrible  street  alone 
Among  the  pushing  people,   .  .  to  go  .   .   where  ?" 

One  day,  the  last  before  the  dreaded  last. 

Among  the  convalescents,  like  herself 

Prepared  to  go  next  morning,  she  sat  dumb. 

And  heard  half  absentl}'  the  women  talk. 

How  one  was  famished  for  her  baby's  cheeks — 

"  The  little  wretch  would  know  her!  a  3ear  old. 

And  lively,  like  his  father!"  one  was  keen 

To  get  to  work,  and  All  some  clamorous  mouths  ; 

And  one  was  tender  for  her  dear  goodman 

Who  had  missed  her  sorely — and  one,  querulous  .  , 

"  Would    pa^'   those    scandalous    neighbors    who    ha'J 

dared 
To  talk  about  her  as  already'  dead" — 
And  one  was  proud  .  .  "and  if  her  sweetheart  Luke 
Had  left  her  for  a  ruddier  face  than  hers, 
(The  gossip  would  be  seen  through  at  a  glance) 
Sweet  riddance  of  such  sweethearts — let  him  hang! 
'Twere  good  to  have  been  as  sick  for  such  an  end." 

And  while  they  talked,  and  Marian  felt  the  worse 

For  having  missed  the  worst  of  all  their  wrongs, 

A  visitor  was  ushered  through  the  wards 

And  paused  among  the  talkers.     "When  he  loolted, 

It  was  as  if  he  spoke,  and  wlien  he  spoke 

He  sang  perhaps,'  said  Marian  ;  "could  she  telj  ? 

She  only  knew"  (so  much  she  had  chronicled. 


AURORA     LEIGH.  259 

As  seraphs  might,  the  making  of  the  sun) 

"  That  he  who  came  and  spake,  was  Ilomne}'  Leigh 

And  then  and  there,  she  saw  and  heard  him  first." 

And  wlien  it  was  her  turn  to  have  the  face 

Upon  her — all  those  buzzing  pallid  lips 

Being  satisfied  with  comfort — when  he  changed 

To     Marian,    saying,     "And    xjou'?      you're     going, 

where  ?" — 
She,  moveless  as  u  worm  beneath  a  stone 
Which  some  one's  stumbling  foot  had  spurned  aside, 
Writhed  snddenly,  astonished  with  the  light, 
And  breaking  into  sobs  cried,  "  Where  I  go  ? 
None  asked  me  till  this  moment.     Can  I  say- 
Where  1  go  ?  when  it  has  not  seemed  worth  while 
To  God  himself,  who  thinks  of  every  one, 
To  think  of  me,  and  fix  where  I  shall  go?" 

"  So  j-oung,''  he  gently  asked  her,  "j^ou  have  lost 
Your  father  and  your  mother?" 

"Both,"  she  said, 
"  Both  lost!  my  father  was  burnt  up  with  gin 
Or  ever  I  sucked  milk,  and  so  is  lost. 
M,y  mother  sold  me  to  a  man  last  month, 
And  so  my  mother's  lost,  'tis  manifest. 
And  I,  who  fled  from  her  for  miles  and  miles, 
As  if  I  had  caught  sight  of  the  fires  of  hell 
Through  some  wild  gai),  (she  was  my  mother,  sir,; 
It  seems  I  shall  be  lost  too,  presently, 
And  so  we  end,  all  three  of  us." 

"  Poor  child !" 
fie  said — with  such  a  pity  in  his  voice. 
It    soothed    her   more    than    her   own    tears  —  "poor 

child  ! 
'Tis  simple  that  betrayal  by  mother's  love 
Should  bring  despair  of  God's  too.     Yet  be  taught ; 
He's  better  to  us  than  many  mothers  are, 
And  children  cannot  wander  beyond  reach 
Of  the  sweep  of  his  white  raiment.     Touch  and  hold  ! 
And  if  you  weep  still,  weep  where  John  was  laid 
While  Jesus  loved  him." 

"  She  could  saj'  the  words,' 
She  told  me,  "  exactly  as  he  uttered  them 
A  year  back,  .  .  since  in  any  doubt  or  dark, 
They  came  out  like  the  stars,  and  shone  on  her 
With  just  their  comfort.     Common  words,  perhaps  ; 
The  ministers  in  church  might  say  the  same; 


260  AURORA     LEIGH. 

But  he,  he  made  the  church  with  what  he  spoke 

The  difference  was  the  miracle,"  said  she. 

Then  catcning  up  her  smile  to  ravishment, 

She  added  quickly,  "  I  repeat  his  words, 

But  not  his  tones  :  can  any  one  repeat 

The  music  of  an  organ,  out  of  church  ? 

And  when  he  said  '  poor  cliihl,'  I  shut  my  eyes  •- 

To  feel  how  tenderly  his  voice  broke  through, 

As  the  ointment-box  broke  on  the  Holy  feet 

To  let  out  the  rich  medicative  nard," 

She  told  me  how  he  had  raised  and  rescued  her 

With  reverent  pity,  as,  in  toucliing  grief. 

He  touched  the  wounds  of  Christ — and  made  her  feel 

More  self-respecting.     Hope,  he  called,  belief 

In  God — work,  worship  .  .  therefore  let  us  pray ! 

And  thus,  to  snatch  her  soul  from  atheism. 

And  keep  it  stainless  from  her  mother's  face, 

He  sent  her  to  a  famous  sempstress-house 

Far  off  in  London,  there  to  work  and  hope. 

With  that  they  parted.     She  kept  sight  of  Heaven, 
But  not  of  Komney.     He  had  good  lo  do 
To  others:  through  the  days  and  through  the  nights, 
She  sewed  and  sewed  and  sewed.     She  drooped  some. 

times. 
And  wondered,  while,  along  the  tawny  light. 
She  struck  the  new  thread  into  her  needle's  eye, 
How  people,  without  mothers  on  the  hills, 
Could  choose  the  town  to  live  in  ! — then  she  drew 
The  stitch,  and  mused  how  Romney's  face  w^ould  look 
And  if  'twere  likely  he'd  remember  hers. 
When  they  two  had  their  meeting  after  death. 


FOURTH  BOOK. 

They  met  still  sooner.     'Twas  a  j-ear  from  thence 
When  Lucy  Gresham,  the  sick  sempstress  girl. 
Who  sewed  b}'  Marian's  chair  so  still  and  quick, 
And  leant  her  head  upon  the  back  to  cough 
More  freely  when,  the  mistress  turning  round 
The  others  took  occasion  to  laugh  out — 
Gave  up  at  last.     Among  the  workers,  spoke 


AURORA     LEIGH.  261 

A  hold  girl  with  black  eyebrows  and  red  lips — 
"  You  know  the  news  ?  Who's  dying,  do  you  think  ? 
Our  lAicy  Gresham.     I  expected  it 
As  little  as  Nell  Hart's  Avedding.     Blush  not,  Nell, 
Thy  curls  be  red  enough  without  thy  cheeks  ; 
And,  some  daj',  there'll  be  found  a  man  to  dote 
On  red  curls. — Lucy  Gresham  swooned  last  night, 
Dropped  sudden  in  the  street  while  going  home; 
And  now  the  baker  says,  who  took  her  up 
And  laid  her  b3'  her  grandmother  in  bed. 
He'll  give  her  a  week  to  die  in.     Pass  the  silk. 
Let's  hope  he  gave  her  a  loaf  too,  witliin  reach, 
For  otherwise  they'll  starve  before  thej'  die, 
That  funu}^  i)air  of  bedfellows  !     Miss  Bell, 
I'll  thank  you  for  the  scissors.     The  old  crone 
Is  paralytic — that's  the  reason  why 
Our  Lucy's  thread  went  faster  than  her  breath, 
"Which  went  too  quick,  we  all  know.     Marian  Erie! 
'NMiy,  Marian  Erie,  you're  not  the  fool  to  cry? 
Your  tears  spoil  Lady  Waldemar's  new  dress, 
You  piece  of  pity  !  " 

Marian  rose  up  straight, 
And,  breaking    througli    the    talk  and    through    the 

work, 
Went  outward,  in  the  face  of  their  surprise, 
To  Luc\-'s  home,  to  nurse  her  back  to  life 
Or  down  to  death.     She  knew  by  such  an  act, 
All  place  and  grace  were  forfeit  in  the  house, 
Whose  mistress  would  supply  the  missing  hand 
With  necessary-,  not  inhuman  haste, 
And  take  no  blame.     But  pity,  too,  had  dues: 
She  could  not  leave  a  solitary  soul 
To  founder  in  the  dark,  while  she  sat  still 
And  lavished  stitches  on  a  lady's  hem 
As  if  no  other  work  were  paramount. 
"Why,  God,"  thought  Marian,  "has  a  missing  hand 
This  moment;  Lucy  wants  a  drink,  perhaps. 
Let  others  miss  me !  nevsr  miss  me,  God  !  " 

So  Marian  sat  by  Lucy's  bed,  content 

With  duty,  and  was;  strong,  for  recompense. 

To  hold  the  lamp  of  hunaan  love  arm-high 

To  catch  the  death-strained  eyes  and  comfort  them, 

Until  the  angels,  on  the  luminous  side 

Of  death,  had  got  theirs  ready.     And  she  said, 

When  Luc}-  thanked  her  sometimes,  called  her  kind, 


262  AURORA     LEIGH. 

It  touched  her  strangeW.     "  Marian  Erie  called  kind  ! 
What,  Marian,  beaten  and  sold,  who  could  not  di3  ! 
'Tis  verily  good  fortune  to  be  kind. 
All,  you,"  she  said,  "  who  are  born  to  such  a  grace, 
Be  sorry  for  the  unlicensed  class,  the  poor, 
Reduced  to  think  the  best  good  fortune  means 
That  others,  simply,  should  be  kind  to  them." 

From  sleep  to  sleep  while  Lucy  slid  awa}' 

So  gently,  like  a  light  upon  a  hill, 

Of  which  none  names  tlie  moment  when  it  goes, 

Though  all  see  when  'tis  gone — a  man  came  in 

And  stood  beside  the  bed.     The  old  idiot  wretch 

Screamed  feebly,  like  a  baby  overlain, 

"  Sir,  sir,  you  won't  mistake  me  for  the  corpse  ? 

Don't  look  at  me.  sir  !  never  bury  me.  / 

Although  I  lie  here,  I'm  alive  as  you, 

Except  niy  legs  and  arms — I  eat  and  drink. 

And  understand — (that  you're  the  gentleman 

Who  fits  the  funerals  up,  Heaven  speed  you,  sir,) 

And  certainly  I  should  be  livelier  still 

If  Lucy  here  .  .  sir,  Lucy  is  the  corpse  .  . 

Had  worked  more  properly  to  buy  me  wine: 

But  Lucy,  sir,  was  always  slow  at  work, 

I  shan't  lose  much  by  Lucy.     Marian  Erie, 

Speak  up  and  show  the  gentleman  the  corpse." 

And  then  a  voice  said,  "  Marian  Erie."     She  rose; 

It  was  the  hour  for  angels — there,  stood  hers  ! 

She  scarcely  marvelled  to  see  Romney  Leigh. 

As  light  November  snows  to  empty  nests. 

As  grass  to  graves,  as  moss  to  mildewed  stones. 

As  Jul}'  suns  to  ruins,  through  the  rents. 

As  ministering  spirits  to  mourners,  through  a  loss, 

As  Heaven  itself  to  men,  through  pangs  of  death, 

He  came  uncalled  wherever  grief  had  come. 

"  And  so,"  said  Marian  Erie,  "we  met  anew," 

And  added  softly,  "  so,  we  shall  not  part." 

[le  was  not  angry  that  she  had  left  the  house 

AVherein    he   placed   her.     Well — she    had    feared   it 

might 
Have  vexed  him.     Also,  when  he  found  her  set 
On  keeping,  though  the  dead  was  out  of  sight, 
That  half-dead,  half-live  body  left  behind 
With   cankerous    heart  and   flesh — which    took  youi 

best 


'■Through  the  days  and  through  tho  nights. 
She  sewed  and  sewed  and  sewed.     She  droi)ped  someiimes.' 


A  U  R  0  R  A     L  E  I  O  H  .  20') 

And  cursed  you  for  the  little  good  it  did, 
(Could  any  leave  the  bedrid  wretch  alone, 
So  joyless,  she  was  thankless  even  to  God, 
Much  less  to  you  ?)  he  did  not  say  'twas  well, 
Yet  Marian  thought  lie  did  uot  take  it  ill — 
Since  day  V)y  day  he  came,  and,  ever}'  day, 
She  felt  within  his  utterance  and  his  eyes 
A  closer,  tenderer  presence  of  the  soul, 
TTntil  at  last  he  said,  "  We  shall  not  part." 

On  that  same  day,  was  Marian's  work  complete: 

She  had  smoothed  the  empty  bed,  and  swept  the  floei 

Of  coffin  sawdust,  set  the  chairs  anew 

Tiio  dead  had  ended  gossip  in,  aud  stood 

Iri  that  poor  room  so  cold  and  orderly', 

The  door-key  in  lier  hand,  prepared  to  go 

As  they  had,  howbeit  not  their  way.     He  spoke. 

"  Dear  ^Marian,  of  one  clay  God  made  us  all. 
And  though  men  push  and  poke  and  paddle  i-,"''t 
(As  childi'en  play  at  fashioning  dirt-pies) 
And  call  their  fancies  by  the  name  of  facts, 
Assuming  difference,  lordship,  privilege, 
When  all's  plain  dirt — the}^  come  back  to  it  at  last ; 
The  first  grave-digger  proves  it  with  a  spade, 
And  pats  all  even.     Need  we  wait  for  this. 
You,  Marian,  and  I,  Romne}^  ?  " 

She,  at  that, 
Looked  blindly  in  his  face,  as  when  one  looks 
Through  drying  autumn  rains  to  find  the  sky. 
lie  went  on  speaking. 

"  Marian,  I  being  born 
What  men  call  noble,  and  3'ou,  issued  from 
Tlie  noble  people — though  the  tyrannous  sword 
M'hich  pierced  Chrii,t's  heart,  has   cleft  the  world  1b 

twain 
'Twixt  class  and  class,  opposing  rich  to  poor — 
Shall  ice  keep  parted  ?     Not  so.     Let  us  lean 
And  strain  together  rather,  each  to  each. 
Compress  the  red  lips  of  this  gaping  wound, 
As  far  as  two  souls  can — a}',  lean  and  league, 
I.  from  vay  superabundance — from  j-our  want, 
You — joining  in  a  protest  'gainst  Che  wrong 
On  both  sides  !"— 

All  the  rest,  he  held  her  hand 
In  speaking,  which  confused  the  sense  of  much; 


2G4  AURORA     LEIGH. 

ITer  ln^nrt,  ngainst  his  words,  beat  out  so  thick, 
They  might  as  well  be  written  on  the  dust 
Where  some  poor  bird,  escaping  from  iiawk's  beak, 
Has  dropped,  and   beats    its   shuddering  wings — the 

lines 
Are  rubbed  so — yet  'twas  something  like  to  this, 
— "  That  they  two,  standing  at  the  two  extremes 
Of  social  classes,  had  received  one  seal, 
Been  dedicated  and  drawn  beyond  themselves 
To  mercy  and  ministration — he,  indeed. 
Through  what  he  knew,  and  she,  through  what   she 

felt. 
He,  by  man's  conscience,  she,  by  woman's  heart, 
Relinquishing  their  several  'vantage  posts 
Of  wealth}'  ease  and  honorable  toil, 
To  work  with  God  at  love.     And,  since  God  willed 
That,  putting  out  his  hand  to  touch  this  ark, 
He  found  a  woman's  hand  there,  he'd  accept 
The  si<2;n  too,  hold  the  tender  hnoers  fast, 
And  sa}',  '  My  fellow-worker,  be  ni}^  wife!'  " 

She  told  the  tale  with  simi)le,  rustic  turns — 
Strong  leai)s  of  meaning  in  her  sudden  e3es 
'I'hat  took  the  gaps  of  any  imperfect  phrase 
Of  the  unschooled  speaker:   I  have  rather  writ 
The  thing  1  understood  so,  than  the  thing 
1  heard  so.     And  I  cannot  render  right 
Her  quick  gesticulation,  wild  j'et  soft, 
Self-startled  from  the  habitual  mood  she  used. 
Half  sad,  half  languid — like  dumb  creatures  (now 
A  rustling  bird,  and  now  a  wandering  deer, 
Or  squirrel  against  the  oak-gloom  flashing  up 
His  sidelong  burnished  head,  in  just  her  way 
Of  savage  spontaneity,)  that  slir 
Abruptly  the  green  silence  of  the  woods, 
And  make  it  stranger,  holier,  more  profound  ; 
As  Nature's  general  heail  confes.sed  itself 
Of  life,  and  then  ft-ll  l)ackward  on  iei)ose.- 

1  kissed  the  lips  that  ended. — "  So  indeed 
He  loves  you,  Marian  y 

"  Loves  ii;e!"     She  looked  up 
With  a  child's  wonder  when  you  ask  him  first 
Who  made  the  sun — a  puzzled  blush,  that  grew', 
Then  brokeolf  ina  rapid  radiant  smile 
Of  sure  solution.     "  Loves  me  I  he  loves  all — 


AURORA      LEIOn.  265 

And  mo,  of  eonrse,     Tie  had  not  asked  me  else 

To  work  wUli  him  forever,  and  be  his  wife." 

Her  Words  reproved  me.     Tliis  perhaps  was  love — 

To  have  its  hands  too  full  of  gifts  to  give, 

For  putting  out  a  hand  to  take  a  gift ; 

To  love  so  much,  the  perfect  round  of  love 

hifludes,  in  strict  conclusion,  the  being  loved  ; 

As  Eden-dew  went  up  and  fell  again, 

Enough  for  watering  Edon.     Obviousl}^ 

She  had  not  tlionglit  about  his  love  at  all 

The  cataracts  of  lier  soul  had  poured  themselves. 

And  risen  self-crowned  in  rainbow  ;  would  she  ask 

Who  crowned  her? — it  sufficed  that  she  was  crowned 

Witli  women  of  my  class,  'tis  otherwise  : 

AVe  haggle  for  the  small  change  of  our  gold. 

Ami  so  much  love,  accord,  for  so  much  love, 

Kialto-prices.     Are  we  therefore  wrong? 

If  marriage  be  a  contract,  look  to  it  then, 

Contracting  parties  should  be  equal,  just; 

But  if,  a  simple  fealty  on  one  side, 

A  mere  religion — right  to  give,  is  all. 

And  certain  brides  of  Europe  duly  ask 

To  mount  the  pile,  as  Indian  widows  do. 

The  spices  of  their  tender  3'outh  heaped  up 

The  jewels  of  their  gracious  virtues  worn, 

More  geras,  more  gh)ry — to  consume  entire 

For  a  living  husband  !  as  the  man's  alive. 

Not  dead — the  woman's  duty,  by  so  much, 

Advancetl  iji  I^ugland,  beyond  Hiudostan. 

I  sat  there,  musing,  till  she  touched  my  hand 

AVith  hers,  as  softly  as  a  strange  white  bi;d 

She  feared  to  startle  in  touching.     "  You  are  kind 

But  are  you,  perad venture,  vexed  at  heart 

Because  your  cousin  takes  me  for  a  wife  ? 

I  know  I  am  not  worthy — nay,  in  truth, 

Em  glad  on't,  since,  for  that,  he  chooses  me. 

He  likes  the  poor  things  of  the  world  the  best; 

I  would  not  therefore,  if  I  could,  be  rich. 

It  pleasures  him  to  stoop  for  buttercups; 

I  would  not  be  a  rose  upon  the  wall 

A  queen  might  stop  at,  near  the  palace-door. 

To  say  to  a  courtier,  '  Pluck  that  rose  for  me, 

It's  prettier  than  the  rest.'     O  Romney  Leigh  1 

I'd  lather  far  be  trodden  l)y  his  foot. 

Than  lie  in  a  great  queen's  bosom." 


266  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Out  of  breath 
She  i^aused. 

"  Sweet  Marian,  do  3'ou  disavow 
The  roses  with  that  face  ?" 

She  dropt  her  head 
As  if  the  wind  had  caught  that  flower  of  her, 
And  bent  it  in  the  garden — tlien  looked  u-p 
With  grave  assurance.     "  Well,  you  think  me  bold  1 
But  so  we  all  are,  wlien  we're  pra3-ing  God. 
And  if  I'm  bold — yet,  lady,  credit  me. 
That,  since  I  know  mj^self  for  what  I  am, 
Much  fitter  for  his  handmaid  than  liis  wife, 
I'll  prove  tlie  handmaid  and  the  wife  at  once, 
Serve  tenderly,  and  love  obediently, 
And  be  a  worthier  mate,  perhaps,  "than  some 
Who  are  wooed  in  silk  among  their  learned  books, 
While  /shall  set  myself  to  read  his  eyes, 
Till  such  grow  plainer  to  me  than  tlie  French 
To  wisest  ladies.     Do  you  think  I'll  miss 
A  letter,  in  the  spelling  of  his  mind  ? 
No  more  than  they  do,  when  they  sit  and  write 
Their  flying  words  with  flickering  wild-fowl  tails, 
Nor  ever  pause  to  ask  how  many  fs, 
Should  th:it  be  ?/  or  i — they  know't  so  well : 
I've  seen  them  writing,  when  I  brought  a  dress 
And  waited — floating  out  their  soft  white  hands 
On  shining  paper.     IJut  they're  hard  sometiiaBs, 
For  all  those  hands  ! — we've  used  out  many  nights, 
And  worn  the  yellow  daylight  into  shreds" 
Which  flapped  and   shivered  down  our  aching  eyes 
Till  night  appeared  more  tolerable,  just 
That  pretty  ladies  might  look  beautiful, 
Who  said  at  last  .  .  '  You're  lazy  in  that  house  ! 
You're  slow  in  sending  home  the  work — I  count 
I've  waited  near  an  hour  for't.'     Pardon  me — 
I  do  not  blame  them,  madam,  nor  misprize ; 
They  are  fair  and  gracious  :  ay,  but  not  like  you, 
Since  none  but  j^ou  has  Mister  Leigh's  own  blood 
Both  noble  and  gentle — and  without  it  .  ,  well, 
They  are  fixir,  I  said  ;  so  fair,  it  scarce  seems  strange 
That,  flashing  out  in  any  looking-glass 
The  wonder  of  their  glorious  brows  and  breasts, 
They  are  charmed  so,  they  forget  to  look  behind 
And  mark  how  i)ale  we've  grown,  we  pitiful 
Remainders  of  the  world.  "  And  so,  perhaps, 
If  Mister  Leigh  had  chosen  a  wife  from  these, 


AURORA     LEIGH.  2G? 

She  ir.ight  ,  .  although  he's  better  than  her  best, 
And  dearly  she  would  know  it  .  .  steal  a  thought 
Which  should  be  all  his,  an  eye-glance  from  his  face, 
To  plunge  into  the  mirror  opposite, 
In  search  of  her  own  beauty's  pearl :  while  /. 
Ah,  dearest  lad}',  serge  will  outweigh  silk 
For  winter-wear,  when  bodies  feel  a-cold, 
And  I'll  be  a  true  wife  to  your  cousin  Leigh." 

Before  I  answered,  he  was  there  himself. 
I  think  he  had  been  standing  in  the  room, 
And  listened  probably  to  half  her  talk, 
Arrested,  turned  to  stone — as  white  as  stone. 
Will  tender  sayings  make  men  look  so  white  ? 
He  loves  her  then  profoundl3^ 

"  You  are  here, 
Aurora  ?     Here  I  meet  you  !  " — We  clasped  hands. 

"  Even  so,  dear  Romney.     Lady  Waldemar 
Has  sent  me  in  haste  to  find  a  cousin  of  mine 
Who  shall  be." 

"Lady  Waldemar  is  good." 

"Here's   one,    at  least,   who  is  good,"  I   sighed   and 

touched 
Poor  Marian's  happy  head,  as,  doglike,  she 
Most  passionately  patient,  waited  on, 
A-tremble  for  her  turn  of  greeting  words  ; 
"  I've  sat  a  full'hour  with  your  Marian  Erie, 
And  learnt  the  thing  by  heart — and,  from  my  heart. 
Am  therefore  competent  to  give  30U  thanks 
For  such  a  cousin." 

"  You  accept  at  last 
A  gift  from  me,  Auroi-a,  without  scorn? 
At  last  I  please  j^ou  ?  " — How  his  voice  was  changed 

"  You  cannot  please  a  woman  against  her  will, 

And  once  3'ou  vexed  me.     Shall  we  speak  of  that 

W^e'U  say,  then,  you  were  noble  in  it  all. 

And  I  not  ignorant — let  it  pass.     And  now, 

You  please  me.  Romnej^  when  you  please  3'ourself ; 

So,  please  you,  be  fanatical  in  love, 

And  I'm  well  uleased.     Ah,  cousin  !  at  the  old  hall, 

Among  the  gallery  portraits  of  our  Leighs, 

We  shall  not  find  a  sweeter  signory 

Than  this  pure  forehead's." 


208  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Not  a  word  he  said — 
How  arrogant  men  are  ! — Even  philautlu'opists, 
Who  try  to  take  a  wife  up  in  tlie  wa^^ 
Tlie3'  put  down  a  subscription-clieek — if  once 
She  turns  and  sa^ys,  "  I  will  not  tax  j^ou  so, 
Most  eharital)Ie  sir" — feel  ill  at  ease, 
A.S  though  she  had  wronged  them  somehow.     I  sup- 
pose 
We  women  should  remember  what  we  are. 
And  not  throw  back  an  obolus  inscribed 
With  Ctesar's  image,  lightly.     I  resumed. 

"  It  strikes  me,  some  of  those  sublime  Vandykes 

Were  not  too  proud,  to  make  good  saints  in  heaven  ; 

And,  if  so,  then  they're  not  too  proud  to-daj' 

To  bow  down  (now  the  rufts  are  off  their  necks) 

And  own  this  good,  true,  noble  Marian,  .  .  yours, 

And  mine,  I'll  say  I — For  poets  (bear  the  word) 

Half-i)oets  even,  are  still  whole  democrats — 

Oh,  not  that  we're  disloyal  to  the  high. 

But  loyal  to  the  low,  and  cognizant 

Of  the  less  scrutable  majesties.     For  me, 

I  comprehend  your  choice — I  justify 

Your  right  in  choosing." 

"No,  no,  no,"  he  sighed, 
With  a  sort  of  melanchol}'  impatient  scorn, 
As  some  grown  man,  who  never  had  a  child, 
Puts  by  some  child  who  pla3's  at  being  a  man  ; 
■ — "You  did  not,  do  not,  cannot  comprehend 
My  choice,  my  ends,  my  motives,  nor  myself. 
No  matter  now — we'll  let  it  pass,  3'ou  sa3^ 
I  thank  you  for  your  generous  cousinship 
Which  helps  this  present ;  I  accept  for  her 
Your  favorable  thoughts.     We're  fallen  on  days, 
We  two,  who  are  not  poets,  when  to  wed 
Requires  less  mutual  love  than  common  love. 
For  two  together  to  bear  out  at  once 
Upon  the  loveless  many.     Work  in  pairs. 
In  galley-couplings  or  in  marriage-rings. 
The  difference  lies  in  the  honor,  not  the  work — 
And  such  we're  bound  to,  I  and  she.     But  love, 
(You  poets  are  benighted  in  this  age  ; 
The  hour's  too  late  for  catching  even  moths. 
You've  gnats  instead,)  love! — love's  fool-paradise 
Is  out  of  date,  like  Adam's.     Set  a  swan 
To  swim  the  Trenton,  rather  than  true  love 


AURORA      LEIGH.  2(iy 

To  float  its  fabulous  plumage  safely  down 
Tlie  cataracts  of  this  loud  tiansition-time- 
Wliose  roar,  forever,  henceforth,  in  my  ears, 
^Just  keep  me  deaf  to  music." 

There,  I  turned 
And  kissed  poor  ^[arian,  out  of  discontent. 
The  man  had  l)allied,  chafed  nie,  till  I  flung 
For  refuge  to  the  woman — as,  sometimes, 
Impatient  of  some  crowded  room's  close  smell, 
You  throw  a  window  open,  and  lean  out 
To  breathe  a  long  breath  in  the  dewy  night. 
And  cool  your  angry  forehead.     She,  at  least, 
AV^as  not  built  up,  as  walls  are,  brick  by  brick  ; 
Each  fanc}^  squared,  each  feeling  ranged  by  line, 
The  very  heat  of  burning  youth  appHcd 
To  indurate  forms  and  systems!  excellent  bricks, 
A  well-built  wall — which  stops  you  on  the  road. 
And,  into  which,  you  cannot  see  an  inch 
Although  3-ou  beat  3'our  head  against  it — pshaw! 

"Adieu,"  I  said,  "  for  this  time,  cousins  both; 

And,  cousin  llomney,  pardon  me  the  word, 

Be  happy  ! — oh,  in  some  esoteric  sense 

Of  course! — I  mean  no  harm  in  wishing  well. 

Adieu,  my  Marian : — may  she  come  to  me. 

Dear  Romnej^  and  be  married  from  my  house  ? 

It  is  not  part  of  your  philosophy 

To  keep  your  bird  upon  the  blackthorn  ?" 

"Ay," 
He  answered,  "but  it  is: — I  take  my  wife 
Directly  from  the  people — and  slie  comes. 
As  Austria's  daugliter  to  imperial  France, 
Betwixt  her  eagles,  blinking  not  her  race. 
From  Margaret's  Court  at  garret-height,  to  meet 
And  wed  me  at  St.  James's,  nor  put  off 
Her  gown  of  serge  for  that.     The  things  we  do, 
We  do:  we'll  wear  no  mask,  as  if  we  blushed." 

"Dear  Romney,  you're  the  poet,"  I  replied 

But  felt  my  smile  too  mournful  for  my  word, 

And    turned    and    went.     Ay,    masks,     I    thouo-ht 

beware 
Of  tragic  masks,  we  tie  before  the  glass, 
Uplifted  on  the  cothurn  half  a  yard 
Above  the  natural  stature  1  we  would  play 
Heroic  parts  to  ourselves — and  end,  perhaps, 


270  AURORA     LEIGH. 

As  impoteiilly  as  Athenian  wives 
Who  shrieked  in  fits  at  the  Eumenides. 

His  foot  pursued  me  down  the  stair.     "At  least, 

You'll  suffer  me  to  walk  with  you  beyond 

These  hideous  sti-eets,  these  graves,  where  men  alive, 

Packed  close  with  earthworms,  burr  unconsciously 

About  the  plague  that  slew  them  ;  let  me  go. 

The  very  Avonien  pelt  their  souls  in  mud 

At  any  woman  who  walks  here  alone. 

How  came  3'ou  here  alone  ? — you  are  ignorant." 

We  had  a  strange  and  melancholy  walk : 

The  night  came  drizzling  downward  in  dark  I'ain  ; 

And,  as  we  walked,  the  color  of  the  time, 

The  act,  the  presence,  my  hand  upon  his  arm. 

His  voice  in  vay  ear,  and  mine  to  my  own  sense, 

Appeared  unnatural.     We  talked  modern  hooks, 

And  daily  papers  ;  Spanish  marriage-schemes, 

And  English  climate — was't  so  cold  last  jear  ? 

And  will  the  wind  change  by  to-morrow  morn  ? 

Can  Guizot  stand  ?  is  London  full?  is  trade 

Competitive  ?  has  Dickens  turned  his  hinge 

A-pinch  upon  the  fingers  of  the  great  ? 

And  are  potatoes  to  grow  mythical 

Like  moly  ?  will  the  apple  die  out  too? 

Which  wa}'    is   the   wind    to-night  ?    southeast  ?    due 

east  ? 
We  talked  on  fast,  while  every  common  word 
Seemed  tangled  with  the  thunder  at  one  end, 
And  ready  to  pull  down  upon  our  heads 
A  terror  out  of  sight.     And  yet  to  pause 
Were  surelier  mortal:  we  tore  greedily  up 
All  silence,  all  the' innocent  breathing-points, . 
As  if,  like  pale  conspirators  in  haste. 
We  tore  up  papers  where  our  signatures 
Imperilled  us  to  an  ugly  shame  or  death. 

I  cannot  tell  you  why  it  was.     'Tis  plain 
We  had  not  loved  nor  hated:   wherefore  dread 
To  spdl  gunpowder  on  ground  safe  from  fire? 
Perhaps  we  had  lived  too  closely',  to  diverge 
So  absolutely :  leave  two  clocks,  they  say. 
Wound  up  to  different  hours,  upon  one  shelf, 
And  slowly,  through  ihe  interior  wheels  of  each. 
The  blind  mechanic  motion  sets  itself 


AURORA     LEIQH.  ^Tl 

A-throb,  to  feel  out  for  the  mutual  time. 
It  was  not  so  with  us,  indeed.      While  he 
Stiufk  midnioht,  I  kept  striking  six  at  dawn, 
While  lie  marked  judgment,  I,  redemption-day; 
And  sueh  exception  to  a  general  law, 
imperious  upon  inert  matter  even, 
Might  make  us,  each  to  eitlier  insecure, 
A  beckoning  mystery,  or  a  troubling  fear. 

1  mind  me,  when  we  parted  at  the  door. 

How    strange    his    good-night    sounded — like    good 

night 
Beside  a  death-bed,  where  the  morrow's  sun 
Is  sure  to  come  too  late  for  more  good  days  : — 
And  all  that  night  I  thought .  .  "  Good-night,"  said  he 

And  so,  a  month  passed.     Let  me  set  it  down 
At  once — I  have  l»een  wrong,  I  have  been  wrong. 
/We  are  wrong  always,  when  we  think  too  much 
(  Of  what  we  think  or  are  ;  albeit  our  thought 
I  B«  verily  bitter  as  self-sacrifice, 
1  We're  no  less  selfish.     If  we  sleep  on  rocks 
\)r  roses,  sleeping  past  the  hour  of  noon 
We're  lazy.     Tliis  I  write  against  myself. 
I  had  done  a  duty  in  the  visit  paid 
To  Marian,  and  was  ready  otherwise 
To  give  the  witness  of  my  presence  and  name 
Whenever  she  should   marry. — Which,  1  thought, 
Sufliced.     I  even  had  cast  into  the  scale 
An  overweight  of  justice  toward  tlie  match; 
The  Ijady  Waldemar  had  missed  her  tool, 
Had  broken  it  in  the  lock  as  l)eing  too  straight 
For  a  crooked  purpose,  while  poor  Marian  Erie 
Missed  nothing  in  my  accents  or  my  acts: 
I  had  not  been  ungenerous  on  the  whole, 
Nor  3et  untender ;  so,  enougli.     I  felt 
Tired,  overworked  :  this  marriage  somewhat  jarred  ; 
Or,  if  it  did  not,  all  the  bridal  noise  .   . 
The  pricking  of  the  map  of  life  with  pins, 
In  schemes  of  .  .  "  Here  we'll  go,"  and  "  There  we'll 

stay," 
And  "  Everywliere  we'll  prosper  in  our  love," 
Was  scarce  my  business.     Let  them  order  it ; 
Who  else  sliould  care?     I  threw  myself  aside, 
As  one  who  had  done  her  work  and  shuts  her  eyes 
To  rest  the  better. 


272 


AURORA      LEIOH. 


I,  who  should  have  known, 
Forereckoned  mischief!     Where  we  disavow 
Being  keeper  to  our  brother,  we're  his  Cain. 

I  might  have  held  that  poor  child  to  ray  heart 

A  little  longer!   'twould  have  Ivirt  me  much 

To  have  hastened  by  its  beats  the  marriage  day, 

And  kept  her  safe  meantime  from  tampering  hands, 

Or,  peradventure,  traps?     What  drew  me  back 

From  telliuL':  Komney  plainly,  the  designs 

Of  Lady  Waldemar,  as  spoken  out 

To  me  .  .  me?  had  I  any  right,  ay,  right. 

With  womanly  coifl passion  and  reserve 

To  break  the  fall  of  woman's  impudence? — 

To  stand  bv  calmly,  knowing  what  I  knew. 

And  hear  him  call  her  good? 

Distrust  that  word. 
"There  is  none  good  save  God,"  said  Jesus  Christ. 
If  He  once,  in  the  first  creation-week, 
Called  creatures  good — forever  afterward, 
The  Devil  only  has  done  it,  and  his  heirs, 
The  knaves  wlio  win  so,  and  the  fools  who  lose; 
The  world's  grown  dangerous.     In  the  middle  age, 
I  think  they  called  malignant  fa3's  and  imps 
Good  people.     A  good  neighbor,  even  in  this 
Is  fatal  sometimes — cuts  your  morning 
To  mince-meat  of  the  very  smallest  talk 
Then  helps  to  sugar  her  bohea  at  night 
With  your  reputation.     I  have  known  good  wives, 
As  chaste,  or  nearly  so,  as  Potiphar's  ; 
And  good,  good  mothers,  who  would  use  a  child 
To  better  an  intrigue ;  good  friends,  beside, 
(Very  good)  who  hung  succinctly  round  your  neck 
And  sucked  your  breath,  as  cats  are  fabled  to  do 
By  sleeping  infants.     And  we  all  have  known 
Good  critics,  who  have  stamped  out  poets'  hopes; 
Good  statesmen,  who  pulled  ruin  on  the  state ; 
Good  patriots,  who  for  a  theorj^,  risked  a  cause ; 
Good  kings,  who  disembowelled  for  a  tax ; 
Good  popes,  who  brought  all  good  to  jeopardy ; 
Good  Christians,  who  sat  still  in  easy  chairs. 
And  damned  the  general  world  for  standing  up. — 
Novv,  may  the  good  God  pardon  all  good  men  ! 

How  bitterly  I  speak — how  certainh' 
The  innocent  white  milk  in  us  is  turned, 
By  much  persistent  shining  of  the  sun  I 


AURORA      LEIGH.  273 

Sliake  up  the  sweetest  in  us  long  enough 
With  men,  it  drops  to  foolisli  curd,  too  sour 
To  feed  the  most  untender  of  Christ's  lambs 

I  should  have  thought  .  .  a  woman  of  the  world 

Like  her  I'm  meaning — centre  to  lierself, 

Who  has  wheeled  on  her  own  pivot  half  a  life 

In  isolated  self-love  and  self-will, 

As  a  windmill  seen  at  a  distance  radiatinti- 

Its  delicate  white  vans  against  the  sky, 

So  soft  and  soundless,  simply  beautiful — 

Seen  nearer  .  .  what  a  roar  and  tear  it  makes, 

How  it  grinds  and  bruises  !  .  .  if  she  loves  at  last, 

Her  love's  a  re-adjustment  of  self-love. 

No  more  ;  a  need  felt  of  another's  use 

To  her  one  advantaue— as  the  mill  wants  grain, 

The  fire  wants  fuel,  the  very  wolf  wants  prey ; 

And  none  of  these  is  more  unscrupulous 

Than  such  a  charming  woman  when  she  loves. 

She'll  not  be  thwarted  by  an  obstacle 

So  triflii)g  as  .   .  her  soul  is,  ,  .  much  less  ^-ours  !— 

Js  God  a  consideration  ? — she  loves  you, 

Not  God  ;  she  will  not  flinch  for  him  indeed 

She  did  not  for  the  Marchioness  of  Perth, 

W'lion  wanting  tickets  for  the  birthnight  ball. 

She  loves  you,  sir,  with  passion,  to  lunacy; 

She  loves  you  like  her  diamonds  .  .  almost. 

Well, 
A  month  passed  so,  and  then  the  notice  came; 
On  such  a  day  the  marriage  at  the  church. 
I  was  not  backward. 

Half  St.  Giles  in  frieze 
Was  bidden  to  meet  St.  James  in  cloth  of  gold, 
And,  after  contract  at  the  altar,  pass 
To  eat  a  marriage-feast  on  Hampstead  Heath. 
Of  course  the  people  came  in  uncompelled. 
Lame,  blind,  and  worse — sick,  sorrowful,  and  v»'orse, 
'J'lie  humors  of  the  peccant  social  wound 
All  pressed  out,  poured  out  upon  Pimlico. 
Exasperating  the  unaccustomed  air 
With  hideous  interfusion  :  you'd  suppose 
A  finished  generation,  dead  of  plague, 
Swept  outward  from  their  graves  into  the  sun, 
The  moil  of  death  upon  them.     W^hat  a  sight  1 
A  holiday  of  miserable  men 
Is  sadder  than  a  burial-day  of  kings. 


SlT-i  AURORA     LEIGH, 

They  cloggevl  the  streets,  they  oozed  into  the  church 

In  a  dark  slow  sti'eam,  like  blood.     To  see  that  sight, 

The  noble  ladies  stood  up  in  their  pevvs, 

Some  pale  for  fear,  a  few  as  red  for  hate, 

Some  siraph*  curious,  some  just  insolent, 

And  some  in  wondering  scorn — "  What   next  ?  what 

next  ?" 
These  crushed  their  delicate  rose-lips  from  the  smile 
That  misbecame  them  in  a  holy  place. 
With  broidered  hems  of  perfumed  handkerchiefs  ; 
Those  passed  the  salts  with  confidence  of  eyes 
And  simultaneous  shiver  of  moire  silk  ; 
While  all  the  aisles,  alive  and  l)lack  with  heads, 
Ciawled  slowly  toward  the  altar  from  the  street. 
As  bruised  snakes  crawl  and  hiss  out  of  a  hole 
With  shuddering  involutions,  swaying  slow 
From  right  to  left,  and  then  from  left  to  right, 
\.In  pants  and  pauses.     What  an  ugly  crest 
Of  faces,  rose  upon  you  everywhere. 
From  that  crammed  mass  !  you  did  not  usually 
See  faces  like  them  in  the  open  daj' : 
They  hide  in  cellars,  not  to  make  you  mad 
As  Romney  Leigh  is. — Faces  ! — O"  my  God, 
We  call   those,  faces?  men's  and  women's  .  .  ay, 
And  children's ; — babies,  hanging  like  a  rag 
Forgotten  on  their  mother'.-  neck— poor  mouths, 
Wii)ed  clean  of  mother's  milk  by  mother's  blow, 
Before  tiie3'  are  taught  her  cursing.     Faces  .  .  phew,, 
We'll  call  them  vices  festering  to  despairs. 
Or  sorrows  petrifying  to  vices  :   not 
A  finger-touch  of  God  left  whole  on  them  ; 
All  ruined,  lost — the  countenance  worn  out 
As  the  garments,  the  will  dissolute  as  the  acts, 
The  passions  loose  and  draggling  in  the  dirt 
To  trip  the  foot  up  at  the  first  free  step  ! — 
Those,  faces !   'twas  as  if  you  had  stirred  up  hell 
To  heave  its  lowest  dreg-fiends  uppermost 
In  fiery  swirls  of  slime— such  strangled  fronts, 
Such  obdurate  jaws  were  thrown  up  constantly, 
To  twit  3'ou  with  your  race,  corrupt  your  blood, 
And  grind  to  devilish  colors  all  your  dreams 
Henceforth,  .   .   though,  hai)ly,  you  should  drop 

asleep 
By  clink  of  silver  waters,  in  a  muse 
On  Raffael's  mild  Madonna  of  the  Bird. 


"And  sprang  down,  bounded  headlong  down  the  steep, 
Awav  from  both — away,  if  possible, 
As  fur  as  God, — away !" 


AURORA     LEIGH.  275 

I've  waked  and  slept  through  many  nights  and  days 
Since  then — but  still  that  da}^  will   catch  my  breath 
Like  a  nightmare.     Tlici-e  are  fatal  da>s,  indeed, 
In  whicii  the  librous  years  have  taken  root 
So  dcepl3',  that  they  quiver  to  their  tops 
Whene'er  you  stir  tlie  dust  of  such  a  day. 

My  cousin  met  me  willi  his  eyes  and  hand, 

And  then,  with  just  a  word,  .  .  that  "  Marian  Erie 

Was  coming  with  her  bridesmaids  presently," 

Made  haste  to  place  mo  by  the  altar-stair. 

Where  he  and  other  noble  geutlcmen 

And  high-born  ladies,  waited  for  the  bride. 

We  waited.     It  was  early  :  there  was  time 

For  greetiug.  and  the  morning's  compliment; 

And  gradually  a  ripple  of  women's  talk 

Arose  and  fell,  and  tossed  about  a  spray 

Of  English  .ss,  soft  as  a  silent  hush, 

And,  notwithstanding,  quite  as  audible 

As  louder  phrases  thrown  out  by  the  men. 

— "  Yes  really,  if  we've  need  to  w\ait  in  church, 

We've  need  to  talk  there.'' — "  She  ?  'Tis  Lady  Ayr, 

In  blue — not  purple!  that's  the  dowager." 

— "  She  looks  as  young." — "  She  flirts  as  young,  you 

mean  ! 
Wh}^  if  you  bad  seen  her  upon  Thursday  night, 
You'd  call  Miss  Norris  modest." — "  You  again  ! 
I  waltzed  with  you  three  hours  back.     LTp  at  six. 
Up  still  at  ten:  scarce  time  to  change  one's  shoes. 
I  feel  as  white  and  sulky  as  a  ghost, 
So  pray  don't  speak  to  me,  Lord  Belcher." — "  No, 
I'll  look  at  you  instead,  and  it's  enough 
While  you   have  that  face."     "In  church,  my  lord  I 

fie,'  fie  !  " 
— "  Adair,  j'ou  stayed  for  the  Division  ?  " — "  Lost 
By  one."     "  The  devil  it  is  !     I'm  sorry  for't 
And  if  I  had  not  promised  Mistress  Grove  "  .  . 
— "  You  might  have  kept  3'our  word  to  Liverpool." 
"  Constituents  must  remember,  after  all. 
We're  mortal."—"  We   remind  them  of  it." — "  Hark, 
The  bride  comes  !     Here  she  comes,  in  a  stream  of 

milk!" 
— "  There  ?     Dear,  you  are   asleep    still  ;    don't  j'oq 

know 
The  fi^'e  Miss  Granvilles  ?  always  dressed  in  white 


276  AURORA     LEIGH. 

To  show  they're  ready  to  be  married." — '  Lower  ! 

The  aunt  is  at  your  elbow." — Lady  Maud, 

Did  Lady  Waldemar  tell  you  she  had  seen 

This    girl    of    Leigh's  ?      "  No,— wait !     'twas     Mrs 

Brookes, 
Who  told  me  Lady  Waldemar  told  her — 
xNTo,    'twasn't     Mrs.    Brookes." — "She's     pretty  "'— 

"  Who  ? 
Mrs  Brookes  ?  Lady  Waldemar  ?" — "  How  hot ! 
Pray  is't  the  law  to-day  we're  not  to  breathe  ? 
You're  treading  on  my  shawl — I  thank  you  sir." 
— "  Tht;y  say  the  bride's  a  mere  child,  who  can't  read, 
But  knows  the  things  she  shouldn't,  witii  wide-awake 
Great  eyes.     I'd  go  through  fire  to  look  at  her." 
— ^'  You  do,  I  tliink." — "  And  Lady  Waldemar 
(You  see  her ;  sitting  close  to  Komney  Leigh  ; 
How  beautiful  she  looks,  a  little  flushed  !) 
Has  taken  up  the  girl,  and  organized 
Leigh's   folly.     Should   1  have  come   here,  you  sup 

pose. 
Except   she'd    ask  me  ?  " — "  She'd    have  served  hi  u 

more 
By  marrying  him  herself." 

"  Ah — there  she  comes, 
The  bride,  at  last !  " 

"  Indeed,  no.     Past  eleven. 
She  puts  off  her  patched  petticoat  to-day 
And  puts  on  Ma3'-fair  manners,  so  begins 
By  setting  us  to  wait." — "  Yes,  yes,  this  Leigh 
Was  always  odd  ;  it's  in  the  blood,  I  think ; 
His  father's  uncle's  cousin's  second  son 
Was,  was  .  .  3-ou  understand  me — and  for  him. 
He's  stark  ! — has  turned  quite  lunatic  upon 
This  modern  question  of  the  poor — the  poor : 
An  excellent  subject  when  you're  moderate ; 
You've  seen  Prince  Albert's  model  lodging-house? 
Does  honor  to  his  royal  highness.     Good  ! 
But  would  he  stop  his  carriage  in  Cheapside 
To  shake  a  common  fellow  by  the  fist 
Whose  name  was  .  .  Shakspeare  ?  no.     We   draw   a 

line, 
And  if  we  stand  not  by  our  order,  we 

In  England,  we  fall  headlong.     Here's  a  sight 

A  hideous  sight,  a  most  indecent  sight — 

My  wife  would  come,  sir,  or  I  had  kept  her  back 

By  heaven,  sir,  when   poor  Damiens'  trunk  and  limbs 


AURORA     LEIGH.  277 

Were  torn  by  horses,  women  of  the  court 
Stood  by  and  stared,  exactly  as  to-day 
On  this  dismeniherino-  of  society, 
With  pretty  troubled  faces." 

"  Now,  at  last. 
She  comes  now." 

"  Where?  who  sees  ?  you  push  me,  sir 
Beyond  the  point  of  what  is  mannerly. 
You're  standing,  madam,  on  my  second  flounce — 
I  do  beseech  you." 

"  No — it's  not  the  bride. 
Half-past  eleven.     How  late.     The  bridegroom,  marli, 
Gets  anxious  and  goes  out." 

"  And  as  I  said  .  . 
These  Lelghs  !  our  best  blood  running  in  the  rut ! 
It's  something  awful.     We  had  pardoned  him 
A  simple  misalliance,  got  up  aside 
For  a  pair  of  sky-blue  eyes;  our  House  of  Lords 
Has  winked  at  such  things,  and  we've  all  been  young, 
But  here's  an  inter-marriage  reasoned  out, 
A  contract  (carried  boldly  to  the  light, 
To  challenge  observation,  pioneer 
Good  acts  by  a  great  example)   'twixt  the  extremes 
Of  martyrized  societ}^ — on  the  left. 
The  Avell-born — on  the  right,  the  merest  mob, 
To  treat  as  equals  ! — 'tis  anarchical ! 
It  means  more  than  it  saj^s — 'tis  damnable  ! 
AVhy,  sir,  we  can't  have  even  our  coffee  good, 
Unless  Ave  strain  it." 

"  Here,  Miss  Leigh  !  " 

"  Lord  Howe, 
You're   llomuey's    friend       What's    all    this    waiting 
for  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell.  The  bride  has  lost  her  head 
(And  wa}',  perhaps!)  to  prove  her  sympathy 
With  the  bridegroom." 

"  What — you  also,  disapprove  I  " 

'■  Oh,  /  approve  of  nothing  in  the  world," 
He  answered  ;  "not  of  3'ou,  still  less  of  me. 
Nor  even  of  Romney — though  he's  worth  us  both, 
We're  all  gone  wrong.     The  tune  in  us  is  lost: 
And  whistling  in  back  alleys  to  the  moon. 
Will  never  catch  it." 

Let  me  draw  Lord  Ilow^e  ,* 


27«  AURORA     LEIGH. 

A  born  aristocrat,  brod  radical, 

And  educated  socialist,  who  still 

Goes  floating,  on  traditions  of  his  kind, 

Across  the  theoretic  flood  from  France — • 

'riiongh,  lilve  a  drenciied  Xoah  on  a  rotten  deck. 

Scarce  safer  for  his  phice  there.      He,  at  least. 

Will  never  land  on  Ararat,  he  knows, 

To  recommence  the  world  on  the  old  plan  : 

Indeed,  he  thinks,  said  world  had  better  end 

He  sj-mpathizes  rather  with  the  fish 

Outside,  than  with  the  drowned  paired  beasts  within 

Who  cannot  couple  again  or  multiply  : 

And  that's  the  sort  of  Xoah  he  is.  Lord  Howe. 

He  never  could  be  anytlunti-  complete, 

Except  a  loyal,  upright  gentleman, 

A  liberal  landlord,  graceful  diner-out. 

And  entertainer  more  than  hospitable, 

Whom  authors  dine  with  and  forget  the  port. 

Whatever  he  believes,  and  it  is  much, 

But  no-wise  certain  .  .  now^  here  and  now  there, 

He  still  has  sympathies  bej'ond  his  creed. 

Diverting  him  from  action.     In  the  House, 

No  party  counts  upon  him,  and  all  praise: 

All  like  his  books  too,  (for  he  has  written  books) 

Which,  good  to  lie  beside  a  bishop's  chair. 

So  oft  outreach  themselves  with  jets  of  fire 

At  which  the  foremost  of  the  progressists 

May  warm  audacious  hands  in  passing  b3\ 

—Of  stature  over-tall,  lounging  for  ease ; 

Light  hair,  that  seems  to  carry  a  wind  in  it, 

And  eyes  that,  when  they  look  on  you,  will  lean 

Their  whole  weight  half  in  indolence,  and  half 

In  wishing  you  unmitigated  good. 

Until  you  know  not  if  to  flinch  from  him 

Or  thank  him. — 'Tis  Lord  Howe. 

"  We're  all  gone  wrong," 
Said  he,  "and  Romne^',  that  dear  friend  of  ours, 
Is  no-wise  right.     There's  one  true  thing  on  earth ; 
That's  love!     He  takes  it  up,  and  dresses  it, 
And  acts  a  play  with  it,  as  Hamlet  did, 
To  show  what  cruel  uncles  w'e  have  been, 
And  how  we  should  be  uneasy  in  our  minds. 
While  he.  Prince  Hamlet,  weds  a  pretty  maid 
(Who  keei)s  us  too  long  waiting,  we'll  confess 
B}-  symbol,  1o  instruct  us  formally 
To  fill  the  ditches  up  'twixt  class  and  class. 


AURORA      LEIGH.  279 

And  live  togetlier  in  phalansteries. 

What  then  ? — he's  mad,  our  llanilet !  clnp  his  play, 

And  bind  him." 

"Ah  Lord  Howe,  this  si)ectacle 
Pulls  stronger  at  us  than  the  Dane's.  See  there! 
The  crammed  aisles  heave  and  strain  and  steam  with 

life- 
Dear  Heaven,  what  life !" 

"  Wliy,  yes — a  poet  sees  ; 
"\N  liich  makes  him  difTerent  from  a  common  man. 
/,  too,  see  somewhat,  thouoh  1  cannot  sinsf; 
I  should  have  been  a  poet,  only  that 
My  mother  took  fi'ight  at  the  ugly  world. 
And  bore  me  tongue-tied.     If  you'll  grant  me  now 
That  Komne}'  gives  us  a  fine  actor-piece 
To  make  us  merry  on  his  marriage-morn — 
The  fable's  worse  than  Hamlet's,  I'll  concede. 
The  terrible  people,  old  and  poor  and  blind, 
Their  eyes  eat  out  with  plague  and  poverty 
From  seeing  beautiful  and  clieei'ful  sights. 
We'll  liken  to  a  brutalized  King  Lear, 
Led  out — by  no  means  to  clear  scf)res  with  wrongs — 
His  wrongs  are  so  tar  back,  .  .  he  has  forgot ; 
All's  past  like  youth  ;  but  just  to  witness  here 
A  simple  contract — he,  upon  his  side. 
And  Regan  with  her  sister  Goneiil 
And  all  the  dappled  courtiers  and  court-fools, 
On  their  side.     Not  that  any  of  these  would  say 
They're  sorry,  neither.     What  is  done,  is  done, 
And  violence  is  now  turned  privilege, 
As  cream  turns  cheese,  if  buried  long-  enough. 
What  could  such  lovely  ladies  have  to  do 
W' itli  the  old  man  there,  in  those  ill-odorous  rags, 
Except  to  keep  the  wind-side  of  him  ?     Lear 
Is  flat  and  quiet,  as  a  decent  grave  ; 
He  does  not  curse  his  daughters  in  the  least. 
Jle  these  his  daughters?     Lear  is  thinking  of 
His  porridge  chiefly  .  .  is  it  getting  cold 
At  Hampstead  ?  will  the  ale  be  served  in  pots  ? 
Poor     Lear,     poor    daughters?       Bravo,     Romney's 

play?" 

A  murmur  and  a  movement  drew  around  ; 
A  naked  whisper  touched  us.     Something  wrong 
What's  wrong  ?     That  black  crowd,  as  an  overstrained 
Cord,  quivered  in  vibrations,  and  I  saw  .  . 


280  AURORA      LEIGH 

Was  that  his  face  I  saw?  .  .  his  .  .  Romney  Leigh's  .  . 

Which  tossed  a  sudden  horror  like  a  sponge 

Into  all  e3^es — while  himself  stood  white  upon 

The  topmost  altar-stair,  and  tried  to  speak, 

And  failed,  and  lifted  higher  aboAX'  his  head 

A.  letter,  .  .  as  a  man  who  drowns  and  o-asps. 

"  ^Fy  brothers,  bear  with  me !     I  am  very  weak. 
I  meant  but  only  good.     Perhaps  I  meant 
Too  proudly — and  God  snatched  the  circumstance 
And    changed   it   therefore.     There's   no   marriage^ 
none. 

She  leaves  me — she  departs — she  disappears 

I  lose  her.     Yet  I  never  forced  her  'ay,' 

To  have  her  '  no'  so  cast  into  my  teeth 

In  manner  of  an  accusation,  thus. 

My  friends,  yon  are  all  dismissed.      Go,  eat  and  drink 

According  to  the  programme — and  farewell !" 

He  ended.     There  was  silence  in  the  church; 

We  heard  a  baby  sucking  in  its  sleep 

At  the  farthest  end  of  the  aisle.     Then  spoke  a  man, 

"  Now,  look  to  it,  coves,  that  all  the  beef  and  drink 

Be  not  filched  from  us  like  the  otiier  fun; 

For  beer's  spilt  easier  than  a  woman  is  ! 

This  gentry'  is  not  honest  with  the  poor; 

They  bring  us  up  to  trick  us." — "  Go  it,  Jim," 

A  woman  screamed  back — "  I'm  a  tender  soul ; 

I  never  banged  a  child  at  two  years  old 

And  drew  blood  from  him,  but  I  sobbed  for  it 

Next  moment — and  I've  had  a  plague  of  seven. 

I'm  tender;  I've  no  stomach  even  ibr  beef, 

Until  I  know  about  the  girl  tiiat's  lost, 

That's  killed,  mayhap.      I  did  misdoubt  at  first, 

The  fine  loi'd  meant  no  good  by  her,  or  us. 

He,  maybe,  got  the  upper  hand  of  iier 

By  holding  up  a  wedding-ring,  and  then  . 

A  choking  linger  on  her  throat,  last  night, 

And  just  a  clever  tale  to  keep  us  still, 

As  she  is,  poor  lost  innocent.     '  Disappear  I' 

Who  ever  disappears  except  a  ghost  ? 

And  who  believes  a  story  of  a  ghost  ? 

I  ask  you — would  a  girl  go  off.  instead 

Of  staying  to  be  married  ?  a  fine  tale! 

A  wicked  man,  I  say,  a  wicked  man! 

For  m}-  part  I  would  rather  starve  on  gm 


AURORA     LEIGH.  2b' 1 

Than  make  m}^  dinner  on  his  beef  and  beer." — 
At  which  a  cry  rose  up — "  We'll  have  our  rights. 
We'll  have  the  girl,  the  girl !     Your  ladies  there 
Are  married  safely  and  smoothly  every  day, 
And  she  shall  not  drop  through  into  a  trap 
Because  she's  poor  and  of  the  people:  shame! 
We'll  have  no  tricks  played  off  b}-  gentlefolks  ; 
We'll  see  her  righted." 

Through  the  rage  and  roar 
I  heard  the  broken  words  which  Romne}^  flung 
Among  the  turbulent  masses,  from  the  ground 
He  held  still,  with  his  masterful  pale  face — 
As  huntsmen  throw  the  ration  to  the  pack, 
AVho,  falling  on  it  headlong,  dog  on  dog 
In  heaps  of  fury,  rend  it,  swallow  it  up 
AVith  yelling  hound  jaws — his  indignant  words, 
His  piteous  words,  his  most  pathetic  words. 
Whereof  I  caught  the  meaning  here  and  there 
]iy  his  gesture  .   .  torn  in  morsels,  yelled  across. 
And  so  devoured.      From  end  to  end,  the  church 
Kocked  round  us  like  the  sea  in  storm,  and  then 
Broke  up  like  the  earth  in  earthquake.    Men  cried  out 
"Police!" — and  women  stood  and  shrieked  for  God 
Or  dropt  and  swooned  ;  or,  like  a  herd  of  deer, 
(For  whom  the  black  woods  suddenly  grow  alive, 
Unleashing  their  wild  shadows  down  the  wind 
To  hunt  the  creatures  into  corners,  back 
And  forward)  madly  fled,  or  lilindly  fell. 
Trod  screeching  underneath  the  feet  of  those 
Who  fled  and  screeched. 

The  last  sight  left  to  me 
Was  Romney's  terrible  calm  face  above 
The  tumult ! — the  last  sound  was  '•  Pull  him  down  ! 
Strike — kill  him  !"     Stretcliing  my  unreasoning  arms, 
As  men  in  dreams,  who  vainly  interpose 
'Twixt  gods  and  tlu'ir  undoing,  Avith  a  cry 
I  struggled  to  precipitate  myself 
Head-foremost  to  the  rescue  of  my  soul 
In  that  white  face,  .  .  till  some  one  caught  me  back 
And  so  the  world  went  out — I  felt  no  more. 

What  followed,  was  told  after  by  Lord  Howe, 
Who  bore  me  senseless  from  the  strangling  crowd 
In  church  and  street,  and  then  returned  alone 
To  see  the  tumult  quelled.     The  men  of  Law 
Had  fallen  as  thunder  on  a  roaring  fire. 


282  AURORA      LEIGH. 

And  made  all  silent — while  the  people's  smoke 
Passed  eddying  slowly  from  the  emptied  aisles. 

Here's  Marian's  letter,  which  a  ragged  child 
Brought  running,  just  as   Komney^t  the  porch 
Looked  out  expectant  of  the  bride.     He  sent 
The  letter  to  me  by  his  friend  Lord  Howe 
Some  two  hours  after,  folded  in  a  sheet 
On  which  his  well-known  hand  had  left  a  word. 
Here's  Marian's  letter. 

"  Noble  friend,  dear  saint, 
Be  patient  with  me.     Never  tliink  me  vile. 
Who  might  to-morrow  morning  be  your  wife 
But  that  I  loved  you  more  than  such  a  name. 

Farewell,  my  Romney.     Let  me  write  it  once 

M}'  Romney. 

"  'Tis  so  pretty  a  coupled  word 
I  have  no  heart  to  pluck  it  with  a  blot. 
We  say  '  My  God'  sometimes,  upon  our  knees, 
Who  is  not  therefore  vexed  :  so  bear  with  it 
And  me.     I  know  I'm  foolish,  weak,  and  vain  ; 
Yet  most  of  all  I'm  angr^'  with  myself 
For  losing  your  last  footstep  on  the  stair, 
The  last  time  of  your  coming — yesterday  ! 
The  very  first  time  I  lost  step  of  yours, ' 
(Its  sweetness  comes  the  next  to  what  you  speak) 
But  yesterday  sobs  took  me  by  the  throat. 
And  cut  me  off  from  music. 

"  Mister  Leigh, 
You'll  set  me  down  as  wrong  in  many  things. 
You've   praised    me,   sir,   for  truth— and    now   you'll 

learn 
I  had  not  courage  to  be  rightl}^  true. 
I  once  began  to  tell  you  how  she  came, 
The  woman  .  .  and  you  stared  upon  the  floor 
In  one  of  your  fixed  thoughts  .  .   which  put  me  out 
For  that  day.     After,  some  one  spoke  of  me. 
So  wisely,  and  of  you,  so  tenderl}^ 
Persuading  me  to  silence  for  your  sake  .  .  . 
Well,  well !  it  seems  this  moment  I  was  wrong 
In  keeping  back  from  telling  you  the  truth  : 
There  might  be  truth  betwixt  us  two,  at  least, 
If  nothing  else.     And  3'et  'twas  dangerous. 
Suppose  a  real  angel  came  from  heaven 
To  live  with  men  and  women  !  he'd  go  mad, 
If  no  considerate  hand  should  tie  a  blind 


AURORA     LEIGH.  283 

Across  his  piercing  e3'cs.     'Tis  thus  with  3'oa: 
You  see  us  too  much  in  3'our  heavenly  light; 
I  always  thought  so,  angel — and  indeed 
There's  danger  that  you  beat  3'ourself  to  death 
Against  the  edges  of  tills  alien  world, 
In  some  divine  ami  lluUering  pity. 

"  Yes, 
It  would  be  dreadful  for  a  friend  of  yours, 
To  see  all  England  thrust  you  out  of  doors 
And  mock  you  from  the  windows.      You  might  say, 
Or  think    (that's  worse),   '  There's    some  one  in  the 

house 
I  miss  and  love  still.'     Dreadful ! 

"  Very  kind, 
I  pray  j'ou  mark,  was  Lad}'^  Waldemar. 
She  came  to  see  me  nine  times,  rather  ten — 
So  beautiful,  she  hurts  me  like  the  day 
Let  suddenly  on  sick  eyes. 

"  Most  kind  of  all, 
Y'our  cousin  ! — ah,  most  like  j^ou  !     Ere  you  came 
She  kissed  me  mouth  to  mouth :  I  felt  her  soul 
Dip  through  her  serious  lips  in  hoi}-  fire. 
God  help  me,  but  it  made  me  arrogant ; 
I  almost  told  her  that  you  would  not  lose 
By  taking  me  to  wife:  though,  ever  since, 
I've  pondered  much  a  certain  thing  she  asked   . 
'  He  loves  3'ou,  Marian?'  .  .  in  a  sort  of  mild 
Derisive  sadness  .  .  as  a  mother  asks 
Fler  babe,  '  You'll  touch  that  star  you  think  ?' 

"Farewell  I 
I  know  I  never  touched  it. 

"  This  is  worst : 
Babes  grow,  and  lose  the  hope  of  things  above  ; 
A  silver  threepence  sets  them  leaping  high — 
But  no  more  stars  !  mark  that. 

"I've  writ  all  night, 
And  told  3"0u  nothing.     God,  if  I  could  die, 
And  let  this  letter  break  off  innocent 
Just  here  !     But  no — for  your  sake  . 

"  Here's  the  last : 
I  never  could  be  happy  as  your  wife, 
I  never  could  be  harmless  as  3'Our  friend, 
I  never  will  look  more  into  your  face, 
Till  God  says,  '  Look !'     I  charge  you,  seek  me  not, 
Nor  vex  j^ourself  with  lamentable  thoughts 
That  perad  venture  I  have  come  to  grief; 


284  AURORA      LEIGH. 

Be  sure  I'm  well,  I'm  merry,  I'm  at  ease, 

But  such  a  long  way,  long  wa}',  long  way  off, 

I  think  3^ou'll  lincl  me  sooner  in  my  grave  ; 

And  that's  my  choice,  observe.     For  what  remains, 

An  over-generons  friend  will  care  for  me, 

And  keep  me  happy  .  .  happier  .  . 

"  There's  a  blot  1 
This  ink  runs  thick  .  .  we  light  girls  lightly  weep  .  , 
And  keep  me  happier  .  .  was  the  tiling  to  say,  .  . 
Tlian  as  your  wife  I  could  be! — 0,  my  star, 
jVI}'  saint,  my  soul !  for  surely  you're  my  soul, 
Through  whom  God  touched  me  !  I  am  not  so  lost 
I  cannot  thank  you  for  the  good  you  did, 
The  tears  3'ou  stopped,  which  fell  down  bitterly. 
Like  these — the  times  3'ou  made  me  weep  for  joy 
At  hoping  I  should  learn  to  write  j'our  notes 
And  save  the  tiring  of  your  eyes,  at  night; 
And  most  for  tliat  sweet  thrice  you  kissed  my  lips 
And  said  'Dear  Marian.' 

"  'Tvvould  be  hard  to  read, 
This  letter,  for  a  reader  half  as  learn'd. 
But  3'ou'll  be  sure  to  master  it,  in  spite 
Of  ups  and  downs.     My  hand  shakes,  I  am  blind, 
I'm  poor  at  writing,  at  the  best — and  3et 
I  tried  to  make  my  ys  the  way  you  showed. 
Farewell — Christ  love  you. — Say  'Poor  Marian,  now.' '" 

Poor  Marian  ! — wanton  Marian  ! — was  it  so, 

Or  so  ?    For  da^'s,  her  tonching,  foolish  lines 

We  mused  on  with  conjectural  fantasy, 

As  if  some  riddle  of  a  summer-cloud 

On  which  someone  tries  unlike  similitudes 

Of  now  a  spotted  Hydra-skin  cast  off. 

And  now  a  screen  of  carven  ivory 

That  shuts  the  heaven's  conventual  secrets  up 

From  mortals  over-bold.     We  sought  the  sense  : 

She  loved  iilm  so  perhaps,  (such  words  mean  love,) 

That,  worked  on  b}'^  some  shrewd  perfidious  tongue, 

(And  then  1  thought  of  Lady  Waldemar) 

She  left  him,  not  to  hurt  him  ;  or  perhaps 

Siie  loved  one  in  her  class — or  did  not  love. 

But  mused  upon  her  wild  bad  tramping  life, 

Until  tlie  free  blood  fluttered  at  her  heart, 

And  black  bread  eaten  bj'^  the  road-side  hedge 

Seemed  sweeter  than  being  put  to  Roraney's  school 

Of  philanthrophical  self-sacrifice, 


AURORA     LEIQH.  28 

Ii'ievocabl}'. — Girls  are  girls,  lieslde, 

'I'liought  I,  and  like  a  wedding  by  one  rule. 

Voii  seldom  catcli  these  birds,  except  with  chaff: 

'rhe\'  feel  it  almost  an   immoial  thing 

To  go  out  and  be  married  in  broad  da}^ 

Unless  some  winning  special  flatter3'  should 

Excuse  them  to  themselves  for't,  .  .  "  No  one  parts 

Iler  hair  with  such  a  silver  line  as  you, 

One  moonbeam  from  the  forehead  to  the  crown!" 

Or  else  .  .  "  You  bite  your  lip  in  such  a  wa}^ 

It  spoils  me  for  the  smiling  of  the  rest  " — 

And  so  on.     Then  a  worthless  gaud  or  two. 

To  keep  for  love — a  ribbon  for  the  neck. 

Or  some  glass  pin — they  have  their  weight  with  gills 

And  Romney  sought  her  many  days  and  weeks : 

lie  sifted  all  the  refuse  of  the  town, 

Explored  the  trains,  enquired   among  the  ships, 

And  felt  the  country  through  from  end  to  end  ; 

No  ^larian  ! — Though  I  hinted  what  I  kneAv — 

A  friend  of  his  had  reasons  of  her  own 

For  throwing  back  the  matcdi — lie  would  not  hear: 

The  lady  had  been  ailing  ever  since. 

The  shock  had  hai-med  her.     Sotriething  in  his  tone 

Repressed  me  ;  something  in  nie  shamed  my  doubt 

To  a  sigh,  repressed  too.     He  went  on  to  say 

That,  putting  questions  where  his  Marian  lodged, 

lie  found  she  had  received  for  visitors. 

Besides  himself  and  Lady  Waldemar 

And,  that  once,  me — a  dubious  woman  dressed 

Be3'ond  us  both.     The  rings  upon  her  hands 

Had  dazed  the  children  when  she  threw  them  pence. 

"  She  wore  her  bonnet  as  the  queen  might  hers. 

To  show  the  cvovvn,''  they  said — "a  scarlet  crown 

Of  roses  that  had  never  been  in  bud." 

When  Romney  told  me  that — for  now  and  then 
He  came  to  tell  me  how  the  search  advanced, 
His  voice  dropped  :     I  bent  forward  for  the  rest : 
The  woman  had  been  with  her,  it  appeared, 
At  first  from  week  to  week,  then  da}'  b}'  day. 
And  last,  'twas  sure  .  . 

I  looked  upon  the  ground 
To  escape  the  anguish  of  his  eyes,  and  asked 
As  low  as  when  3-ou  speak  to  mourners  new 
Of  those  the}'  cannot  bear  yet  to  call  dead, 


236  AURORA     LEIGH. 

If  Marian  had  as  much  as  named  to  him 
A  certain  Rose,  an  early  friend  of  hers, 
A  ruined  creature." 

"  Never." — Starting  up 
T3e  strode  from  side  to  side  about  the  room. 
Most  like  some  prisoned  lion  sprung  awake, 
Wlio  has  felt  the  desert  sting  him  through  his  drearaa 
"  What  was  I  to  her,  that  she  should  tell  me  aught? 
A  friend  !  was  I  a  friend  ?     I  see  all  clear. 
Such  devils  would  i)ull  angels  out  of  heaven. 
Provided  the}'  could  reach  thein  ;   'tis  tiieir  pride; 
And  that's  the  odds  'twist  soul  and  body-plaguo  ! 
The  veriest  slave  who  drops  in  Cairo's  street. 
Cries,  '  Stand  off  from  me,'  to  the  passengers 
While  these  blotched  souls  are  eager  to  infect, 
And  blow  their  bad  breath  in  a  sister's  face 
As  if  the}'  got  some  ease  by  it." 

I  broke  through — 
"  Some  natures  catch  no  plagues.     I've  read  of  babea 
Found  whole  and  sleeping  b}'  the  spotted  breast 
Of  one  a  full  da}-  dead.     I  liold  it  true. 
As  I'm  a  woman  and  know  womanhood, 
That  Marian  Erie,  however  lured  from  place. 
Deceived  in  wa}',  keeps  pure  in  aim  and  heart. 
As  snow  that's  drifted  from  the  garden-bank 
To  the  open  road." 

'Twas  hard  to  hear  him  laugh. 
"  The  figure's  happ}".     Well — a  dozen  carts 
And  trampers  will  secure  you  presently 
A  fine  white  snow-drift.     Leave  it  there,  your  snow  I 
'Twill  pass  for  soot  ere  sunset.      Pure  in  aim  ? 
She's  pure  in  aim,  I  grant  you — like  myself. 
Who  thought  to  take  the  world  upon  my  back 
To  carry  it  over  a  chasm  of  social  ill. 
And  end  hy  letting  slip  through  impotence 
A  single  soul,  a  child's  weight  in  a  soul, 
Straight  down  the  pit  of  hell !  yes,  I  and  she 
Have  reason  to  be  proud  of  our  pure  aims." 
Then  softly,  as  tlie  last  repenting  drops 
Of  a  thunder  shower,  he  added,  "  The  poor  child; 
Poor  Marian!  'twas  a  luckless  day  for  her, 
When  first  she  chanced  on  my  philanthropj'." 

Jle  drew  a  chair  beside  me,  and  sat  down  ; 

And  I,  instinctively,  as  women  use 

Before  a  sweet  friend's  grief — when,  in  his  ear, 


AURORA      LEIGH.  2SV 

They  hum  the  tune  of  comfort,  though  themselves 

Most  ignorant  of  the  special  words  of  such, 

And  quiet  so  and  fortify  his  brain 

And  give  it  time  and  strength  for  feeling  out 

To  reach  the  availing  sense  beyond  that  sound — ■ 

Went  murmuring  to  him,  what,  if  written  here, 

Would  seem  not  much,  yet  fetched  him  better  help 

Than  perad venture,  if  it  had  been  more. 

I've  known  the  pregnant  thinkers  of  this  time 

And  stood  by  breathless,  hanging  on  their  lips, 

When  some  chromatic  sequence  of  fine  thought 

In  learned  modulation  phrased  itself 

To  an  unconjeetured  harmony  of  truth. 

And  j^et  I've  been  more  moved,  more  raised,  I  say. 

By  a  simple  word  .  .  a  broken  easy  thing, 

A  three-years  Infant  might  say  after  you — 

A  look,  a  sigh,  a  touch  upon  the  palm, 

Which  meant  less  than  "  I  love  30U"  .  .  than  by  all 

The  full-voiced  rhetoric  of  those  master-mouths 

"Ah  dear  Aurora,"  he  began  at  last. 

His  pale  lips  fumbling  for  a  sort  of  smile, 

"  Your  printer's  devils  have  not  spoilt  your  heart: 

That's  well.     And  who  knows  but,  long  years  ago, 

When  you  and  I  talked,  3'ou  were  somewhat  right 

In  being  so  peevish  with  me  ?     You,  at  least, 

Have  ruined  no  one  through  your  dreams  ?     Instead, 

You've  helped  the  facile  youth  to  live  youth's  day 

With  innocent  distraction,  still  perhaps 

Suggestive  of  things  better  than  j-our  rhymes. 

The  little  shepherd-maiden,  eight  years  old, 

I've  seen  upon  the  mountains  of  Yaucluse, 

Asleep  i'  tlie  sun,  her  head  upon  her  knees. 

The  flocks  all  scattere<l — is  more  laudable 

Than  iiny  sheep-dog  trained  imperlectly. 

Who  bites  the  kids  through  too  much  zeal." 

"  I  look 
As  if  I  had  slept,  then  ?" 

He  was  touched  at  once 
By  something  in  my  face.     Indeed  'twas  sure 
Tiiat  he  and  1 — despite  a  year  or  two 
Of  3^ounger  life  on  my  side,  and.  on  his, 
The  heaping  of  the  years'  work  on  the  days — 
The  three-hour  speeches  from  the  member's  seat, 
The  hot  committees,  in  and  out  the  House, 
The  pamphlets,  "Arguments,''  "  Collective  T'levvs." 


2d8  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Tossed  out  as  straw  before  sick  houses,  just 

To  show  one's  sick  and  so  be  trod  to  dirt, 

And  no  more  use — throngli  this  world's  undergiouod 

The  burrowing,  groping  effort,  wlience  the  arm 

And  heart  came  bleeding — sure,  that  he  and  1 

Were,  after  all,  unequally  fatigued  ! 

That  he,  in  his  developed  manhood,  stood 

A  little  sunburnt  by  the  glare  of  life  ; 

While  I  .   .  i*  seemed  no  sun  had  shone  on  me, 

So  man}^  seasons  I  had  forgot  ni}'  Springs  ; 

My  cheeks  had  pined  and  perished  from  their  orbs, 

And  all  the  ^^outh  blood  in  them  had  grown  white 

As  dew  on  autumn  cyclamens  :  alone 

My  eyes  and  forehead  answered  for  m}-  face. 

He  said  .  .  "Aurora,  you  are  changed — are  ill  1" 

"Not  so,  m}'  cousin — only  not  asleep!" 

I  answered,  smiling  gently.     "  Let  it  be. 

You  scarcely  found  the  poet  of  Yaucluse 

As  drowsy  as  tiie  shepherds.     "What  is  art. 

But  life  upon  the  larger  scale,  the  higher. 

When,  graduating  up  in  a  spiral  line 

Of  still  expanding  and  ascending  gyres, 

It  pushes  toward  the  intense  signilicance 

Of  all  things,  hungr3'  for  the  Intinite? 

Ai't's  life — and  where  we  live,  we  suffer  and  toil." 

He  seemed  to  sift  me  with  his  painful  eyes. 

"  Alas!  you  take  it  gravely  ;  you  refuse 

Your  dreamland,  right  of  common,  and  green  rest. 

You  break  the  mythic  turf  where  danced  the  nymphs, 

AVith  crooked  plows  of  actual  life — let  in 

The  axes  to  the  legendary  woods. 

To  pay  the  head-tax.     You  are  fallen  indeed 

On  evil  days,  you  poets,  if  yourselves 

Can  praise  that  art  of  yours  no  otherwise  ; 

And,  if  you  cannot,  .  .  better  take  a  trade 

And  be  of  use!   'twere  cheaper  for  your  youth." 

"  Of  use  !"  1  softly  echoed,  "there's  the  point 
We  sweep  about  forever  in  an  argument  ; 
Like  swallows,  which  the  exasperate,  dying  year 
Sets  spinning  in  black  circles,  round  and  round, 
Preparing  for  far  flights  o'er  unknown  seas. 
And  we  .  ,  where  tend  we  ?" 


AURORA      LEIGH.  5S(> 

"  Where  ?''  he  said,  and  sighed 
"  The  whole  creation,  fioui  the  honr  wo  are  born, 
Peri)lexes  us  with  questions.     Not  a  stone 
But  cries  behind  us,  ever}'  weary  step, 
'  Where,  where  ?'  I  leave  stones  to  reply  to  stones. 
Enough  for  me  and  for  my  fleslil^'  heart 
To  hearken  tiie  invocations  of  my  liind, 
When  men  catch  lioUl  upon  nw  shuddering  nerves 
Aiul   shriek,  '  What  help  ?  what  hope  ?  what  bread  i' 

the  house. 
What    fire    i'    the    frost?'      There  must  be  some  re- 
sponse, 
Though  mine  fail  utterly.     This  social  Sphinx, 
Who  sits  between  the  sepulchres  and  stews, 
Makes  mock  and  mow  against  tlie  crystal  heavens, 
And  bullies  God — exacts  a  word  at  least 
From  each  man  standing  on  the  side  of  God, 
However  paying  a  sphinx-price  for  it. 
^Ve  pay  it  also  if  we  hold  our  peace, 
In  pangs  and  pity.     Let  me  speak  and  die. 
Alas!  you'll  say,  I  speak  and  kill,  instead." 

I  pressed  in  there;  "  The  best  men,  doing  their  best, 
Know  peradventure  least  of  what  they  do: 
^len  usefullest  i'  the  world,  are  simpl}^  used  ; 
The  nail  that  holds  the  wood,  must  pierce  it  first 
And   He  alone  who  wields  the  hammer,  sees 
The    work    advanced    by   the   earliest    blow.      Take 

heart." 
"  Ah,  if  I  could  have  taken  j'ours !"  he  said, 
•'  But  that's  past  now."     Then  rising  .  .   'T  will  take 
At  least  your  kindness  and  encouragement. 
I  thank  you.     Dear,  be  happy.     Sing  your  songs, 
If  that's  your  way  !  but  sometimes  slumber  too. 
Nor  tire  too  much  with  following,  out  of  breath, 
The  rhymes  upon  your  mountains  of  Delight. 
Reflect,  if  Art  be,  in  truth,  the  higher  life, 
You  need  the  lower  life  to  stand  upon, 
In  order  to  reach  up  into  that  higher : 
And  none  can  stand  a-tiptoe  in  the  place 
He  cannot  stand  in  with  two  stable  feet. 
Remember  then  ! — for  art's  sake,  hold  your  life." 

We  parted  so.  I  held  him  in  I'espect. 
1  comprehended  what  he  was  in  heart 
And  sacrificial  greatness.     Ay,  but  he 


."!9Q  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Supposed  me  a  thing  too  small  to  deign  to  know ; 

He  blew  me,  plainly,  from  the  crucible, 

As  some  intruding,  interrupting  fly 

Not  worth  the  pains  of  his  analysis 

Absorbed  on  nobler  subjects.      Hurt  a  fly  ! 

He  Avonhi  not  for  tlie  world  :  he's  pitiful 

To  flies  even.     "  Sing,"  says  he,  "and  teaze  me  still, 

H"  that's  your  wa^',  poor  insect."     That's  your  way  I 


FIFTH  BOOK. 

Aurora  Leigh,  be  humble.     Shall  I  hope 

To  spealv  my  poems  in  mysterious  tune 

With  man  and  nature — with  the  lava-lymph 

That  tricliles  from  succes.sive  galaxies 

Still  drop  1)}'  drop  adown  the  linger  of  God, 

In  still  new  worlds  ? — wilh  summer-days  in  tliis. 

That  scarce  dare  breathe,  tliey  are  so  beautiful  ? — 

With  spring's  delicious  trouble  in  the  ground 

Tormented  by  the  quickened  blood  of .  roots. 

And  softly  pricl^ed  b}'  golden  crocus-sheaves 

In  token  of  the  harvest-time  of  flowers? — 

With  winters  and  with  autumns — and  beyond, 

With  the  human  heart's  large  seasons — when  il  noj)es 

And  fears,  joys,  grieves,  and    loves  ? — with  r  /I   that 

strain 
Of  sexual  passion,  which  dcA'ours  the  flesh 
In  a  sacrament  of  souls  ?  witli  mother's  breasts. 
Which,  round  the  new-made  creatures  hanging  there, 
Throb  luminous  and  harmonious  like  pure  spheres  ?— 
With  multitudinous  life,  and  finally 
With  the  great  out-goings  of  ecstatic  souls. 
Who,  in  a  rush  of  too  long  prisoned  flame. 
Their  radiant  faces  upward,  burn  away 
This  dark  of  the  bod}',  issuing  on  a  world 
Beyond  our  mortal  ? — can  I  speak  ray  verse" 
So  plainly  in  tune  to  these  things  and  the  rest, 
That  men  shall  feel  it  catch  them  on  the  quick. 
As  having  the  same  warrant  over  them 
To  hold  and  move  them,  if  they  will  or  no, 
Alike  imperious  as  the  primal  rhythm 
Of  that  theurgic  nature  ?     I  must  fail. 
Who  fail  at  the  beginning  to  hold  ahd  move 


AURORA     LEIGH.  291 

One  man — and  ho  m}^  cousin,  and  he  my  friend, 

And  he  born  tender,  made  intelligent, 

Inclined  to  ponder  the  precipitous  sides 

Of  difficult  questions;  3et,  obtuse  to  me — 

Of  me,  incurious  !  likes  me  very  well. 

And  wishes  me  a  paradise  of  good, 

Good  looks,  good  means,  and  good  digestion  ! — ay, 

But  otherwise  evades  me,  puts  me  off 

AVith  kindness,  with  a  tolerant  gentleness — 

Too  liglit  a  book  for  a  grave  man's  reading  !     Go 

Aurora  Leigh:  l)e  humble. 

There  it  is ; 
We  women  are  too  apt  to  look  to  one. 
Which  proves  a  certain  impotence  in  art. 
We  strain  our  natures  at  doing  something  great. 
Far  less  because  it's  something  great  to  do, 
Than,  haply,  that  we,  so,  commend  ourselves 
As  being  not  small,  and  more  appreciable 
To  some  one  friend.      We  must  liave  mediators 
Betwixt  our  highest  conscience  and  the  judge; 
Some  sweet  saint's  blood  must  quicken  in  our  palms, 
Or  all  the  life  in  heaven  seems  slow  and  cold: 
Good  only,  being  perceived  as  the  end  of  good, 
And  God  alone  pleased — that's  too  poor,  we  think, 
And  not  enough  for  us  by  any  means. 
Ay — Romney,  I  remember,  UAd  me  once 
We  miss  the  abstract,  when  we  comprehend  ! 
We  miss  it  most  when  we  aspire,  .  .  and  fail. 

Yet,  so,  1  will  not — This  vile  woman's  way 
Of  trailing  garments,  shall  not  trip  me  up. 
I'll  have  no  traftic  with  the  personal  thought 
In  art's  pure  tenii)le.     Must  1  work  in  vain, 
AVithout  the  approbation  of  a  man  ? 
It  cannot  be  ;  it  shall  not.     Fame  itself, 
That  ap[jrobation  of  the  general  race. 
Presents  a  poor  end,  (though  the  arrow  speed, 
Shot  straight  with  vigorous  finger  to  the  white,) 
And  the  highest  fame  was  never  reached  except 
By  what  was  aimed  above  it.     Art  for  art. 
And  good  for  God  Himself,  the  essential  Good! 
We'll  keep  our  aims  sublime,  our  eyes  erect. 
Although  our  woman-hands  should  shake  and  fail; 
And  if  we  fail  .  .  But  must  we  ? — 

Shall  I  fail  ? 
The  Greeks  said  grandly  in  their  tragic  phrase, 


292  AURORA     LEIQH. 

•'  Lot  no  one  be  called  happ}^  till  his  death." 
To  which  I  add — Let  no  one  till  his  death 
Be  called  unhappy.     Measure  not  the  work 
Until  the  day's  out  and  the  labor  done  ; 
Then  bring  your  gauges.     If  the  day's  work's  scant, 
Why,  call  it  scant ;  affect  no  compromise  ; 
And,  in  that  we  have  nobly  striven  at  least, 
I  Ileal  with  us  nobly,  women  though  we  be, 
And  houor  us  with  truth,  if  not  with  praise. 

My  ballads  prospered  ;  but  the  ballad's  race 

Ls.  rapid  for  a  poet  who  bears  weights 

Of  thought  and  golden  image.     He  can  stand 

Like  Atlas,  in  the  sonnet — and  support 

His  own  heavens  pregnant  with  dynastic  stars; 

But  then  he  must  stand  still,  nor  take  a  step. 

hi  that  descriptive  poem  called  "The  Hills," 

The  prospects  were  too  far  and  indistinct. 

'Tis  true  my  critics  said,  "  A  fine  view,  that !" 

The  public  scarcely  cai'cd  to  climb  the  book 

For  even  the  finest ;  and  the  public's  right, 

A  tree's  mere  firewood,  unless  humanized  ; 

Which  well  the   Greeks  knew,  when  they  stirred  the 

bark 
With  close-pressed  bosoms  of  subsiding  nj^mphs, 
And  made  the  forest-rivers  garrulous 
With  babble  of  gods.     For  us,  we  are  called  to  mark 
A  still  more  intimate  humanity 
In  this  inferior  nature — or,  ourselves. 
Must  fall  like  dead  leaves  trodden  underfoot 
B3--veritabler  artists.     Earth  shut  up 
By  Adam,  like  a  fakir  in  a  box 
Left  too  long  buried,  remained  stiff  and  dry, 
A  mere  dumb  corpse,  till  Christ  the  Lord  came  down, 
Unlocked  the  doors,  forced  open  the  blank  e^^es, 
And  used  his  kingly  chrisms  to  straighten  out 
The  leathery  tongue  turned  back  into  the  throat; 
Since  when,  she  lives,  remembers,  palpitates 
In  ever}-  lip,  aspires  in  every  breath. 
Embraces  infinite  relations.     Now, 
We  want  no  half-gods,  Panomplmean  Joves, 
Fauns,  Naiads,  Tritons,  Oreads,  and  the  rest 
To  take  possession  of  a  senseless  world 
To  unnatural  vampire-uses.     See  the  earth, 
The  body  of  our  body,  the  green  earth, 


AUlvORA      LEI  a  FT.  09.3 

Indubitably  human,  like  this  flesh 

And  these  articulated  veins  through  which 

Our    heart   drives   blood!    there's    not   a   flower  cf 

spring', 
That  dies  ere  June,  but  vaunts  itself  allied 
By  issue  and  symbol,  by  significance 
And  correspondence,  to  that  spirit-world 
Outside  the  limits  of  our  space  and  time, 
Whereto  we  are  bound.     Let  poets  give  it  voice 
With  human  meanings;  else  they  niiss  the  thought, 
And  henceforth  step  down  lower,  stand  confessed, 
Instructed  poorl3'for  interpreters — 
Thrown  out  by  an  easy  cowslip  in  the  text. 

Even  so  my  pastoral  failed :  it  was  a  book 
f  surface-pictures — pretty,  cold,  and  false 
With  literal  transcript — the  Avorse  done,  1  think, 
For  being  not  ill-done.     Let  me  set  my  mark 
Against  such  doings,  and  do  otherwise. 
This  strikes  me. — If  the  public  whom  we  know, 
Could  catch  me  at  such  adn)issions,  I  should  pass 
For  being  right  modest.     Yet  how  proud  we  are. 
In  daring  to  look  down  upon  ourselves. 

The  critics  say  that  epics  have  died  out 

With  Agamemnon  and  the  goat-nursed  gods 

I'll  not  believe  it.     I  could  never  dream 
As  Payne  Knight  did,  (the  mythic  mountaineer 
Who  travelled  higher  than  he  was  born  to  live, 
And  showed  sometimes  the  goitre  in  his  throat 
Discoursing  of  an  image  seen  through  fog,) 
Tiiat  Homer's  heroes  measured  twelve  feet  high. 
They  were  but  men  ! — his  Helen's  hair  turned  grey 
Like  any  plain  Miss  Smith's,  who  wears  a  front; 
And  Hector's  infant  blubbered  at  a  plume 
As  yours  last  Friday  at  a  Turkey-cock. 
All  men  are  possible  heroes  :  every  ao-e, 
Heroic  in  proportions,  double-faced, 
Looks  backward  and  before,  expects  a  morn 
And  claims  an  epos. 

A}',  but  every  age 
Appears  to  souls  who  live  in  it,  (ask  Carlyle) 
Most  unheroic.     Ours,  for  instance,  ours!' 
The  tiiinkers  scout  it,  and  the  poets  abound 
Who  scorn  *i,o  touch  it  with  a  finger-tip: 
A  pewter  age — mixed  metal,,  silver-washed ; 


294  AURORA     LEIGH. 

An  age  of  scum,  spooned  off  the  richer  past; 

An  age  of  ixitches  for  old  gabardines  ; 

An  age  of  mere  transition,  meaning  nouuht, 

Except  that  what  succeeds  must  shame  it  quite, 

If  God  please.     Tliat's  wrong  thinlving,  to  my  mind, 

And  wrong  thouglits  make  poor  poems. 

Every  age, 
Through  being  beheld  too  close,  is  ill-discerned 
13y  those  who  have  not  lived   past  it.      We'll  suppog-} 
Mount  Athos  carved,  as  Persian  Xerxes  schemed, 
To  some  colossal  statue  of  a  man  : 
The  peasants,  gathering  brushwood  in  his  ear, 
Had  guessed  as  little  of  an}'  human  form 
Up  there,  as  would  a  flock  of  browsing  goats. 
They'd  have,  in  fact,  to  travel  ten  miles  off 
Or  ere  the  giant  image  broke  on  them. 
Full  human  profile,  nose  and  chin  distinct, 
Mouth,  muttering  rhythms  of  silence  up  the  sky, 
And  fed  at  evening  with  the  blood  of  suns  ; 
Grand  torso — hand,  that  flung  perpetually 
Tiie  largesse  of  a  silver  river  down 
To  all  the  country  pastures.     'Tis  even  thus 
With  times  we  live  in — evermore  too  great 
To  be  apprehended  near. 

But  poets  should 
Exert  a  double  vision  ;  should  have  eyes 
To  see  near  things  as  comprehensibly 
As  if  afar  they  took  their  point  of  sight, 
And  distant  tilings,  as  intimately  deep. 
As  if  they  touched  them.     Let  us  strive  for  this. 
I  do  distrust  the  poet  who  discerns 
Xo  character  or  glory  in  his  times. 
And  trundles  back  his  soul  five  hundred  yearS; 
Past  moat  and  drawbridge,  into  a  castle-court, 
Oh  not  to  sing  of  Lizards  or  of  toads 
AliVe  i'  the  ditch  there  ! — 'twere  excusable  ; 
But  of  some  black  chief,  half  knight,  half  sheep-lifter, 
Some  beauteous  dame,  half  chattel  and  half  queen, 
As  dead  as  must  be,  for  the  greater  part, 
The  poems  made  on  their  chivalric  bones. 
And  that's  no  wonder :  death  inherits  death. 

Na3%  if  there's  room  for  poets  in  the  world 

A  little  overgrown,  (I  think  there  is) 

Their  sole  work  is  to  represent  the  age. 

Their  age,  not  Charlemagne's — this  live,  throbbing  age, 


AURORA     LEIGH.  205 

That  biawls,  cheats,  maddens,  calculates,  aspires, 
And  spends  more  passion,  more  heroic  heat, 
JJetwixt  the  mirrors  of  its  drawing-rooms, 
Tlian  Uohvnd  with  his  knights,  at  Koncesvalles. 
To  tlinch  from  modern  varnish,  coat  or  flounce, 
Cry  out  for  togas  and  tlie  pictui-esqne. 
Is  "fatal — foolish  too.     King  Arthur's  self 
^Vas  common-place  to  Lady  Guenever; 
And  Camelot  to  minstrels  seemed  as  flat. 
As  Regent  street  to  poets. 

Never  flinch, 
lint  still,  unscrupulously  epic,  catch 
Upon  a  burning  hiva  of  a  song. 
The  fuU-A'cined,  heaving,  double-breasted  Age  : 
Tliat,  when  the  next  shall  come,  the  men  of  that 
May  touch  the  impress  with  reverent  hand,  and  say 
"  Behold — behold  the  paps  we  all  have  sucked  ! 
That  bosom  seems  to  beat  still,  or  at  least 
It  sets  ours  beating.     This  is  living  art. 
Which  thus  presents,  and  thus  records  true  life." 

What  form  is  best  for  poems  ?     Let  me  think 

Of  forms  less,  and  the  external.     Trust  the  spirit, 

As  sovran  nature  does,  to  make  the  form; 

For  otherwise  we  only  imprison  spirit, 

And  not  embody.      Inward  evermore 

To  outward — so  in  life,  and  so  in  art, 

Which  still  is  life. 

Five  acts  to  make  a  play. 
And  why  not  fifteen  i*  why  not  ten  ?  or  seven? 
What  matter  for  the  number  of  the  leaves, 
Supposing  the  tree  lives  and  grows  ?  exact 
'fhe  literal  unities  of  time  and  place, 
When  'tis  the  essence  of  passion  to  ignore 
Both  time  and  place  ?     Absurd.     Keep  up  the  fire 
And  leave  the  generous  flames  to  shape  themselves 

'Tis  true  the  stage  requires  obsequiousness 
To  this  or  that  convention  ;  "  exit  "  here 
And  "enter"  there;  the  points  for  clapping,  fixed, 
Like  Jacob's  white-peeled  rods  before  the  ram?  ; 
And  all  the  close-curled  imagery  clipped 
In  manner  of  their  fleece  at  sheari>ig  time. 
Forget  to  prick  the  galleries  to  the  heart 
Precisely  at  the  fourth  act — culminate 


296  AURORA      LEIGH. 

Our  five  pyramidal  acts  with  one  act  more — ■ 

We're    lost  so !     Sluikspeare's   ghost   could    scarc^lj? 

plead 
Against  our  just  damnation.     Stand  aside; 
We'll  muse  for  comfort  that,  last  century, 
On  this  same  tragic  stage  on  which  we  have  'ailed, 
A  wigless  Hamlet  would  have  failed  the  same 

And  whosoever  writes  good  poetry. 
Looks  just  to  art.      He  does  not  write  for  you 
Or  me — for  London  or  for  Edinburgh  ; 
He  will  not  suffer  the  best  critic  known 
To  step  into  his  sunshine  of  free  thouglijt 
And  self-absorbed  conception,  and  exact 
An  inch-long  swerving  of  the  holy  lines. 
If  virtue  done  for  poj)ularit3^ 
Defiles  like  vice,  can  art  for  praise  or  hire 
Still  keep  its  splendor,  and  remain  pure  art  ? 
Eschew  such  serftlom.      What  the  poet  writes, 
He  writes  :  mankind  accepts  it,  if  it  suit.s, 
And  that's  success:  if  not,  the  poem's  passed 
From  hand  to  hand,  and  yet  from  hand  to  hand, 
Until  the  unborn  snatch  it,  crying  out 
Li  pity  on  their  father's  being  so  dull, 
\  And  that's  success  too. 

I  will  write  no  plays 
Because  the  drama,  less  sublime  in  this, 
Makes  lower  appeals,  defends  more  menially, 
Adoi^ts  the  standard  of  the  public  taste 
To  chalk  its  height  on,  wears  a  dog-chain  round 
Its  regal  neck,  and  learns  to  carry  and  fetch 
The  fashions  of  the  day  to  please  the  day  ; 
Fawns  close  on  pit  and  boxes,  who  clap  hands 
Commending  chiefly  its  docility 
And  humor  in  stage-tricks  ;   or  else  indeed 
Gets  hissed  at,  howled  at,  stamped  at  like  a  dog 
Or  worse,  we'll  sa^-.      For  dogs,  unjustly  kicked 
Yell,  bite  at  need  ;  but  if  your  dramatist 
(Being  wronged  by  some  five  hundred  nobodies 
Because  their  grosser  l>rains  most  natuiall}' 
Misjudge  the  fineness  of  his  subtle  wit) 
Shows  teeth  an  almond's  breadth,  protests  the  lengtt 
Of  a  modest  phrase — "  My  gentle  countrymen, 
There's  something  in  it,  haply  of  your  fault" — 
Why  then,  besides  five  hundred  nobodies. 
He'll  have  five  thousand,  and  five  thousand  more. 


AURORA      LEIGH.  29'3 

Against  him — the  wliolc  public — all  the  hoofs 
Of  King  Saul's  father's  asses,  in  full  drove — 
And  obviously  deserve  it.     He  appealed 
To  these — and  why  sa}'  more  if  they  condemn, 
'Hian  if  they  praised  him  ? — Weep  mj'^schylus, 
]5ut  low  and  far,  upon  Sicilian  sliores  ! 
For  since  'twas  Athens  (so  I  read  the  nij'^th) 
Who  gave  commission  to  tiiat  fatal  weight, 
Tlie  tortoise,  cold  and  hard,  to  drop  on  thee 
And  crush  thee — better  cover  thy  bald  head  ; 
She'll  hear  the  softest  hum  of  Hyblan  bee 
Before  thy  loud'st  protesting. — For  the  rest, 
The  risk's  still  worse  ui)on  the  modern  stage  ; 
I  could  not,  in  so  little,  accept  success, 
Nor  would  I  risk  so  much,  in  ease  and  calm, 
For  manifestcr  gains  ;  let  those  who  prize 
Pursiie  them  :  /  stand  ort". 

And  yet,  forbid, 
That  any  irreverent  fiincy  or  conceit 
Should  litter  in  the  Drama's  throne-room,  where 
The  rulers  of  our  art,  in  whose  full  veins 
Dynastic  glories  mingle,  sit  in  sti-ength 
And  do  tlieir  kingly  work — conceive,  command, 
And,  from  the  imagination's  crucial  heat, 
Catch  uj)  their  men  and  women  all  a-flame 
For  action  all  alive,  and  forced  to  prove 
Their  life  by  living  out  heart,  brain  and  nerve, 
Until  mankind  makes  witness,  "  These  be  men 
As  we  are,"  and  vouchsafes  the  kiss  that's  due 
To  Imogen  and  Juliet — sweetest  kin 
On  art's  side. 

'Tis  that,  honoring  to  its  worth 
The  drama,  I  would  fear  to  keep  it  down 
To  the  level  of  the  footlights.     Dies  no  more 
The  sacrificial  goat,  for  Bacchus  slain — 
His  lllmed  eyes  fluttered  b}'-  the  whirling  white 
Of  choral  vestures  — troubled  in  his  blood 
While  tragic  voices  that  clanged  keen  as  swords, 
Leapt  high  together  with  the  altar-flame, 
And  made  the  blue  air  wink.     The  waxen  mask, 
Which  set  the  grand  still  front  of  Themis'  son 
Upon  the  puckered  visage  of  a  player  ; — 
The  buskin,  which  he  rose  upon  and  moved. 
As  some  tall  ship,  first  conscious  of  the  wind, 
Sweeps  slowly  past  the  piers  ;— the  mouthpiece,  where 
The  mere  man's  voice  with  all  its  breaths  and  breaks 


29S  AURORA     LEIGH 

Went  siifrtthed  in  brass,  and  claslied  on  even  heights 

Its  phi'asi'd  thundei's  ; — these  things  are  no  more, 

Which  once  were.     And  conclndino-,  which  is  clear, 

The  growing;  di'araa  has  outgrown  such  toys 

Of  simulated  stature,  face,  and  speech, 

It  also,  perad venture,  ma,y  ontijrow 

The  simulation  of  the  painted  scene, 

Boards,  actors,  prompters,  gaslight,  and  costume ; 

And  take  for  a  worthier  stage  the  soul  itself, 

Its  shifting  fancies  and  celest'al  lights, 

With  all  its  grand  orchestral  silences 

To  keep  the  pauses  of  the  rhythmic  sounds. 

Alas,  I  still  see  something  to  be  done, 

And  what  1  do  falls  short  of  what  I    see 

Though  I  waste  myself  on  doing.     Long  green  days 

Worn  bare  of  grass  and  sunshine — long  calm  nights, 

P'rom  which  the  silken  sleeps  weie  fretted  out — 

Be  witness  for  me,  with  no  amateur's 

Irreverent  haste  and  busy  idleness 

I've  set  myself  to  art!     What  then  ?  what's  done  ? 

What's  done,  at  last  ? 

Behold,  at  last,  a  book. 
If  life-blood's  necessary — which  it  is, 
(By  that  blue  vein  athrob  on  Mahomet's  brow, 
Each'i)rophet-poet's  book  must  show  man's  blood  !) 
If  life-blood's  fertilizing,  I  wrung  mine 
On  every  leaf  of  this — unless  the  drops 
iSlid  heavily  on  one  side  and  left  it  dry. 
That  chances  often  :   many  a  fervid  man 
Writes  books  as  cold  and  flat  as  grave-yard  stones 
From  which  the  lichen's  scraped  ;  and  if  St.  Preux 
Had  wi-jtten  his  own  letters,  as  he  might, 
We  had  never  wept  to  think  of  the  little  mole 
'Neath  Julie's  drooping  eyelid.      Passion  is 
But  something  suffered,  alter  all. 

While  art 
Sets  action  on  the  top  of  suffering: 
The  artist's  part  is  both  to  be  and  do, 
Transfixing  with  a  special,  central   power 
The  flat  experience  o^"  the  common  man. 
And  turning  outward,  with  a  sudden  wrench. 
Half  agony,  half  ecstasy,  the  thing 
He  feels  the  inmost :  never  fflt  the  less 
Ik'cause  he  sings  it.     Does  a  torcJi  less  burn 
For  burning  next  reflectors  of  blue  steel 


AURORA      L  E  T  0  ir  .  OQg 

That  he  should  be  the  colder  for  his  iilace 
'Twixt  two  incessant  fires— his  personal  life's, 
And  that  intense  refraction  which  burns  back 
Perpetually  against  him  from  the  round 
Of  crystal  conscience  he  was  born  into 
If  artist  born  ?     O  sorrowful  great  gift 
Conferred  on  poets,  of  a  two-fold  life, 
When  one  life  has  been  found  enough  for  pain 
AVe  staggering  'neath  our  burden  as  mere  men, 
Being  called  to  stand  up  straight  as  demi-gods. 
Support  the  intolerable  strain  and  stress 
Of  the  universal,  and  send  clearly  up 
With  voices  broken  by  the  human  sob. 
Our  poems  to  find  rh3'mes  among  the  stars ! 
But  soft ! — a  "  poet"  is  a  word  soon  said  ; 
A  book's  a  thing  soon  written.     Nay,  indeed, 
The  more  the  poet  shall  be  questionable, 
The  more  unquestionabh'  comes  his  book! 
And  this  of  mine — well,  granting  to  myself 
Some  passion  in  it,  furrowing  up  the  flats, 
Mere  passion  will  not  prove  a  A'olume  worth 
Its  gall  and  rags  even.     Bubbles  round  a  keel 
Mean  nought,  excepting  that  the  vessel  moves. 
There's  more  than  passion  goes  to  make  a  man, 
Or  book,  which  is  a  man  too. 

I  am  sad. 
I  wonder  if  Pygmalion  had  these  doubts, 
And,  feeling  the  hard  marble  first  relent, 
Grow^  supple  to  the  straining  of  his  arms. 
And  tingle  through  its  cold  to  his  burning  lip. 
Supposed  his  senses  mocked,  and  that  the  toil 
Of  stretching  past  the  known  and  seen,  to  reach 
The  archetypal  Beauty  out  of  sight. 
Had  made  his  heart  beat  fast  enough  for  two. 
And  with  his  own  life  dazed  and  blinded  him  ! 
Not  so  ;  P3'gmalion  loved — and  whosif!  loves 
Believes  the  impossible. 

And  I  am  sad  : 
I  cannot  thoroughly  love  a  work  of  mine. 
Since  none  seems  worthy  of  my  thought  and  hope 
More  highly  mated.     He  has  shot  them  down. 
My  Pha'bus  Apollo,  soul  within  my  soul. 
Who  judges  b}^  the  attempted,  what's  attained. 
And  with  the  silver  arrow"  from  his  height. 
Has  struck  down  all  ray  works  before  ni}^  face 
While  /  say  nothing.     Is  there  aught  to  say  ? 


(iOO  AURORA      LEIGH, 

I  called  the  artist  but  a  greatened  man  : 
He  may  he  childless  also,  like  a  man. 

I  labored  on  alone.     The  wind  and  dust 

And  sun  of  the  world  beat  blistering  in  m}''  face  ; 

And  hope,  now  for  me,  now  against  me,  dragged 

Mv  spirits  onward — as  some  fallen  balloon, 

Whicl),  whether  caught  by  blossoming  tree  or  bare, 

Is  torn  alike.     I  sometimes  touched  my  aim, 

Or  seemed — and  generous  souls  cried  out,  "  Be  strong, 

Take  courage  ;  now  you're  on  our  level— now ! 

The  next  step  saves  you!"     I  was  flushed  with  praise, 

]^ut,  pausing  just  a  moment  to  draw  bi-eath, 

I  could  not  choose  but  murmur  to  m3"self 

"  Is  this  all?  all  that's  done?  and  all  that's  gained  ? 

If  this  then  be  success,  'tis  dismaller 

Tiian  any  failure." 

0  m}'  God,  my  God, 
O  supreme  Artist,  who  as  sole  return 
For  all  the  cosn)ic  wonder  of  Thy  woik, 
Demandest  of  us  just  a  word  .  .  a  name, 
"  M}'  Father !" — thou  hast  knowledge,  onlj-  thou, 
How  dreary  'tis  for  w^omen  to  sit  still 
On'  winter  nights  by  solitary  fires. 
And  hear  the  nations  praising  them  far  off, 
Too  far  !  ay,  praising  our  quick  sense  of  I'ove, 
Our  very  heart  of  passionate  womanhood, 
Which  could  not  beat  so  in  the  verse  without 
Being  present  also  in  the  unkissed  lips. 
And  eyes  undried  because  there's  none  to  ask 
The  reason  the}'  grew  moist. 

To  sit  alone, 
And  think,  for  comfort,  how,  that  ver}'  night, 
Affianced  lovers,  leaning  face  to  face 
With  sweet  half-listenings  for  each  other's  breath. 
Are  reading  haply  from  some  page  of  ours, 
To  pause  with  a  thrill,  as  if  their  cheeks  had  touched 
When  such  a  stanza,  level  to  their  rnood. 
Seems  floating  their  own  thoughts  out — "  So  I  feel 
For  thee," — "  And  I,  for  thee  :  this  poet  knows 
What  everlasting  Love  is!" — how,  that  night, 
A  father  issuing  from  the  misty  roads 
Upon  the  luminous  round  of  lamp  and  hearth 
And  happy  children,  having  caught  up  first 
Tiie  youngest  there  until  it  shrunk  and  shrieked 
To  feel  the  cold  chin  prick  its  dimple  through 
With  winter  from  the  hills,  may  throw  i'  the  lap 


AURORA      LEIQH.  '  .'^Ol 

Of  Llio  e  (lest,  (who  h-as  learnt  to  drop  her  lids 

To  hide  some  SAveetness  newer  tlian  last  year's) 

Our  book  and  cvy,  .  .  "Ah  you,  you  care  for  rhymes; 

So  here  be  rhymes  to  pore  on  under  trees, 

When  April  comes  to  let  you  !      I've  been  told 

Thoy  arc  not  idle  as  so  many  are, 

But  set  hearts  beating  pure  as  well  as  fast; 

It's  yours,  the  book  ;   I'll  Aviite  your  name  in  it — 

That  so  you  may  not  lose,  however  lost 

In  poet's  lore  and  charming  reverie, 

The  thought  of  how  your  father  thought  of  yon 

In  riding  from  the  town." 

To  have  our  books 
Appraised  by  love,  associated  with  love, 
While  ive  sit  loveless  !  is  it  hard,  you  think? 
At  least  'tis  mournful.     F'ame,  ind-eeil,  'twas  said, 
Means  simply  love.     It  was  a  man  said  that. 
And  then  there's  love  and  love:  the  love  of  all 
(To  risk,  in  turn,  a  woman's  paradox,) 
Is  but  a  small  thing  to  the  love  of  one. 
You  bid  a  hungry  child  be  satisfied 
With  a  heritage  of  many  corn-fields:   nay, 
lie  says  he's  hungry — he  would  rather  have 
That  little  barley-cake  you  keep  iVoni  him 
While  reckoning  up  his  harvests.     So  with  us; 
(Here,  Romney^,  too,  we  fail  to  generalize  !) 
We're  hungry^ 

Hungry  !  but  its  pitiful 
To  wail  like  unweaned  bal)es  and  suck  our  thumbs 
Because  we're  hungry.     Who,  in  all  this  world, 
(Wherein  we  are  haply  set  to  pray  and  fast. 
And  learn  what  good  is  by  its  opjjosite) 
Has  never  hungered  ?      Woe  to  him  who  has  found 
The  meal  enough:  if  Ugolino's  full, 
His  teeth  have  crunched  some  foul  unnatural  thins:" 
For  here  satiety  pi'oves  penury 
JSIore  utterly  irremediable.     And  since 
We  needs  must  hunger — better,  for  man's  love, 
Than  God's  truth!  better,  for  companions  sweet, 
Than  great  convictions  !  let  us  bear  our  weights, 
Preferring  drearj'  hearths  to  desert  souls.- 
Well,  well,  they  say^  we're  envious,  we  who  rhj-me  ; 
But  I,  because  I  am  a  woman,  perhaps. 
And  so  rhyme  ill,  am  ill  at  envying. 
I  n(;ver  envied  Graham  his  breadtli  of  style. 
Which  gives  you,  with  a  random  smutch  or  two, 


J02  AURORA     LEIGH, 

(Xear-siglitecl  critics  analyze  to  smntch) 

Such  delicate  perspectives  of  full  life  ; 

Nor  Belmore,  for  the  unity  of  aim 

To  Avhich  he  cuts  his  cedarn  poems,  fine 

As  sketchers  do  their  pencils  ;  not  Mark  Gage, 

For  that  caressing  color  and  trancing  tone 

Whereb}"  you're  swept  away  ami  melted  in 

The  sensual  element,  which,  witli  a  back  wave, 

Restores  you  to  the  level  of  pure  souls 

And  leaves  3011  with  Plotinus.     None  of  these, 

For  native  gifts  or  popular  applause, 

I've  envied  ;  but  for  this — tliat  when,  by  chance. 

Says  some  one — "  Tiiere  goes  Belmore,  a  great  man  ! 

He  leaves  clean  work  behind  him,  and  requires 

No  sweeper  up  of  the  chips,"  .  .  a  girl  I  know. 

Who  answers  nothing,  save  with  her  brown  e3'es, 

Smiles  unawares,  as  if  a  guardiau  saint 

Smiled  in  her: — for  this,  too — that  Gage  comes  home 

And  lays  his  last  book's  prodigal  review 

Upon  his  mother's  knees,  Avhere,  years  ago, 

He  had  laid  his  childisli  spelling-bocjk  and  learned 

To  chirp  and  peck  the  letters  from  her  mouth, 

As  young  birds    must,  "  AVell  done,"  she  murmured 

then, 
She  will  not  sa^'  it  now  more  wonderinglj- ; 
And  3'et  the  last  "  Well  done  "  will  touch  him  more, 
As  catching  up  to-day  and  yesterday 
In  a  perfect  chord  of  love;  and  so,  Mark  Gage, 
T  env}^  3'ou  3'our  mother! — and  3'ou,  Graham, 
Because  you  have  a  wife  who  loves  3'ou  so, 
She  half  forgets,  at  moments,  to  be  proud 
Of  being  Graham's  wife,  until  a  friend  observes, 
•'  The  bo3^  here,  has  his  father's  massive  brow. 
Done  small  in  wax  .  ,  if  we  push  back  the  curls," 

Who  loves  ???P?     Dearest  father — motlier  sweet — 

I  speak  the  names  out  sometimes  b3^  m3'self. 

And  make  the  silence  shiver:  the3^  sound  strange, 

As  Hindostanee  to  an  Ind-born  man 

Accustomed  man3-  3'ears  to  English  speech; 

Or  lovel3'  poet-words  grown  obsolete, 

Which  will  not  leave  off  singing.     Up  in  heaven 

I  have  ra3'  father — with  mv  mother's  face 

Beside  him  in  a  Itlotch  of  heavenly-  light: 

No  more  for  earth's  familiar  household  use, 

No  more  1     The  best  verse  written  by  this  hand, 


AURORA     LEIGH.  303 

Tan  never  roach  them  where  they  sit,  to  seem 
^^'ell-done  to  tJiem.     Death  quite  uiifenows  us, 
Sets  dreadful  odds  betwixt  the  live  and  dead, 
And  maiies  us  part  as  tliose  at  Babel  did, 
Through  sudden  ijiiiorance  of  a  common  tongue. 
A  liviui;-  Cixisar  would  not  dare  to  play 
At  bowls,  with  such  as  my  dead  father  is. 

And  yet,  this  may  be  less  so  than  appears. 

This  change  and  separation.     Sparrow's  five 

For  just  two  farthings,  and  God  cares  for  ea';h. 

If  God  is  not  too  great  for  little  cares. 

Is  an 3'^  creature,  because  gone  to  God  ? 

I've  seen  some  men,  veracious,  nowise  mad. 

Who  have  tliouglit  or  dreamed,  declared  and  testified, 

Tliev've  heard  the  Dead  a-ticking  like  a  clock 

Which  strikes  the  hours  of  the  eternities, 

Jk'side  them,  with  their  natural  ears,  and  known 

That  human  spirits  feel  the  human  way. 

And  hate  the  unreasoning  awe  which  waves  them  off 

From  possible  communion.     It  may  be. 

At  least,  earth  separates  as  well  as  heaven. 

For  instance,  I  have  not  seen  Romney  Leigh 

Full  eighteen  months  .  .  add  six,  you  get  two  year.s 

They  say  he's  very  busy  with  good  woiks — 

lias  parted  Leigh  Hall  into  almshouses. 

He  made  an  almshouse  of  his  heart  one  (^:\y, 

Which  ever  since  is  loose  upon  the  latch 

For  those  who  pull  the  string. — I  never  did. 

[t  always  makes  me  sad  to  go  abroad  ; 
And  now  I'm  sadder  tlum  I  went  to-night 
Among  the  lights  and  talkers  at  Lord  Howe's. 
His  wife  is  gracious,  with  her  glossy  braids. 
And  even  voice,  and  gorgeous  eyeballs,  calm 
As  her  other  jewels.     If  she's  somewhat  cold, 
Who  wonders,  when  her  blood  has  stood  so  long 
In  the  ducal  reservoir  she  calls  her  line 
By  no  means  arrogantly  ?  she's  not  proud 
Not  prouder  than  the  swan  is  of  the  lake 
He  has  always  swum  in  ; — 'tis  her  element, 
And  so  she  takes  it  with  a  natural  grace. 
Ignoring  tadpoles.     She  just  knows,  perhaps, 
There  are  men,  move  on  without  outriders, 
Which  isn't  her  fault.     Ah,  to  watch  her  face, 


'304  A  U  R  O  U  A     LEIGH. 

When  good  Lord  Howe  expounds  his  theories 

Of  social  justice  and  equality — 

'Tis  curious,  what  a  tender,  tolerant  bend 

Her  neck  takes :  for  she  loves  him,  likes  his  talk, 

"  Such  clever  talk — that  dear,  odd  Algernon  !" 

She  listens  on,  exactly  as  if  he  talked 

Some  Scandinavian  myth  of  Lemures, 

Too  pretty  to  dispute,  and  too  absurd. 

She's  gracious  to  me  as  her  husband's  friend, 

And  would  be  gracious,  were  I  not  a  Leigh, 

Being  used  to  smile  just  so,  without  her  eyes, 

On  Joseph  Strangways,  the  Leeds  mesmerist, 

And  Delia  Dobbs,  the  lecturer  from  "  the  States  " 

Upon  tlie  "  Woman's  question."     Then,  for  him, 

1  like  liim  .   .  he's  my  friend.     And  all  the  rooms 

Were  full  of  crinkling  silks  that  swept  al)0Ut 

Tlie  fine  dust  of  most  subtle  courtesies. 

AVlmt  then  ? — whj'  then,  we  come  home  to  be  sad. 

How  lovely  One  I  love  not,  looked  to-night ! 

Sjie's  A-ery  pretty,  Lady  Waldemar. 

Tier  maid  must  use  both  hands  to  twist  that  coil 

Of  tresses,  then  be  careful  lest  the  rich 

Bronze   rounds    should  slip  : — she  missed,  though,  »_ 

grey  hair,_ 
A  single  one — I  saw  it ;  otherwise 
The  woman  looked  immortal.     How  they  told, 
Those  alabaster  shoulders  and  bare  breasts. 
On  which  the  pearls,  drowned  out  of  sight  in  milk. 
Were  lost,  excepting  for  the  ruby-clasp ! 
They  split  the  amaranth  velvet-boddice  down 
To  the  waist,  or  nearly,  with  the  audacious  press 
Of  full-breathed  beauty.     If  the  heart  within 
Were  half  as  white !—" but,  if  it  were,  perhaps 
The  breast  were  closer  covered,  and  the  sight 
Less  aspectable,  by  half,  too. 

I  heard 

The  young  man  with  the  German  student's  look — 
A  sharp  face,  like  a  knife  in  a  cleft  stick, 
Which  shot  up  straight  against  the  parting  line 
So  equally  dividing  the  long  hair — 
Say  softly  to  his  neighbor,  (thirty-five 
And  mediaeval)  "  Look  that  way,  Sir  Blaise. 
She's  Lady  Waldemar— to  the  left — in  red— 
Whom  Romne}^  Leigh,  our  ablest  man  just  now 
Is  soon  about  to  marry." 


AURORA     LEIGH.  ;}0o 

Then  replied 
Sir  Blaise  Delorine,  with  quiet,  priestlike  voice 
Too  used  to  sylltible  damnations  round 
To  make  a  natural  emphasis  worth  while: 
"  Is  Leigh  your  ablest  man  ?  the  same,  I  think, 
Once  jilted  by  a  recreant  pretty  maid 
Atlopted  from  the  people?     Now,  in  change, 
He  seems  to  have  plucked  a  flower  from  the  other  side 
Of  the  social  hedge." 

"  A  flower,  a  flower,"  exclaimed 
My  German  student — his  own  eyes  full-blown 
Bent  on  her.     He  was  twenty,  certainly. 

Sir  Blaise  resumed  with  gentle  arrogance, 

As  if  he  had  dropped  his  alms  into  a  hat, 

And  had  the  right  to  counsel — "  My  young  friend. 

J  doubt  3'our  ablest  man's  ability 

To  get  the  least  good  or  help  meet  for  him, 

For  pagan  phalanstery  or  Christian  home. 

From  such  a  flowery  creature." 

"  Beautiful !  " 
My  student  murmured,  rapt — "  Mark  how  she  stirs  t 
Just  waves  her  head,  as  if  a  flower  indeed, 
Touched  far  off"  by  the  vain  breath  of  our  talk." 

At  which  that  bilious  Grimwald.  (he  who  writes 

For  the  Renovator)  who  had  seemed  absorbed 

Upon  the  table-book  of  autographs, 

(I  dare  sa,y  mentally  he  crunched  the  lioues 

()f  all  those  writers,  wishing  them  alive 

To  feel  Ills  tooth  in  earnest)  turned  short  round 

With  low  carnivorous  laugh — "  A  flower,  of  course  1 

She  neither  sews  nor  spins — and  takes  no  thought 

Of  her  garments  .  .  falling  off"." 

The    student   flinchea, 
Sir   Blaise,  the  same  ;  then  both,  drawing  back  their 

chairs 
As  if  they  spied  black  beetles  on  the  floor. 
Pursued  their  talk,  without  a  word  being  thrown 
To  the  critic. 

Good  Sir  Blaise's  brow  is  high 
And  noticeably  narrow  ;  a  strong  wind, 
You  fanc}',  might  unroof  him  suddenly. 
And  blow  that  great  top  attic  off  his  head 
So  piled  with  feudal  relics.     You  admire 
His  nose  in  profile,  though  you  miss  his  chin; 


306  AURORA     LEIGH. 

But,  though  you  miss  his  chin,  you  seldom  miss 

His  golden  cross  worn  innermostly,  (carved 

For  penance,  b}''  a  saintly  Styrian  monk 

Whose    flesh    was    too    much     with    him,)    slipping 

through 
Some  unaware  unbuttoned  casualty 
Of  the  under-waistcoat.     With  an  absent  air 
Sir  Blaise  sat  fingering  it  and  speaking  low, 
While  I,  upon  the  sofa,  heard  it  all. 

"  My  dear  young  friend,  if  we  could  bear  our  e^'es 
Like  blessedest  St.  Lucy,  on  a  plate, 
They  w'ould  not  trick  us  into  choosing  wives. 
As  doublets,  by  the  color.     Otherwise 
Our    fathers    chose — and,    therefore,  when  they    had 
hung 

Their  household  ke3-s  about  a  lady's  waist, 
The  sense  of  duty  gave  her  dignity': 
She  kept  her  bosom  holy  to  her  babes  ; 
And,  if  a  moralist  reproved  her  dress, 
'Twas,    '  Too    much   starch  !' — and    not,   '  Too    little 
lawn  !  '  " 

"  Now,  pshaw  1  "  returned  the  other  in  a  heao, 

A  little  fretted  by  being  called  "  young  friend," 

Or  so  I  took  it — "  for  St.  Lucy's  sake. 

If  she's  the  saint  to  curse  by,  let  us  leave 

Our  fathers — plagued  enough  about  our  sons  !  " 

(He  stroked  his  beardless  chin)  "yes,  plagued,  sir, 

plagued  : 
The  future  generations  lie  on  us 
As  heavy  as  the  nightmare  of  a  seer; 
Our  meat  and  drink  grow  painful  prophecy: 
I  ask  3-ou — have  we  leisure,  if  we  liked, 
To  liollow  out  our  wear}'  hands  to  keep 
Your  intermittent  rushlight  of  the  past 
From  draughts  in  lobbies?     Prejudice  of  sex. 
And  marriage-laws  .  .  the  socket  drops  them  througlj 
While  we  two  speak — however  may  protest 
Some  over-delicate  nostrils,  like  your  own, 
'Gainst  odors  thence  arising." 

"You  are  young," 
Sir  Blaise  objected. 

"  If  I  am,"  he  said 
With  fire — "  though  somewhat  less  so  than  I  seem, 
The  young  run  on  before,  and  see  the  thing 


AURORA     LEIGH.  807 

That's  coming.     Eeverence  for  the  young  I  cry. 
Ill  that  new  church  for  which  the  world's  near  ripe, 
Vok'II  have  the  younger  in  the  Elder's  chair, 
Presiding  with  his  ivor\'  front  of  hope 
O'er  foreheads  clawed  bj^  cruel  carrion-birds 
Of  life's  experience." 

"  Pray  your  blessing,  sir," 
Sir  Blaise  replied  good-humoredly — "  I  plucked 
A  silver  hair  this  morning  from  iny  l)eard. 
Which  left  nie  3'our  inferior.     "Would  I  were 
Eighteen,  and  worthy  to  admonish  you  ! 
If  young  men  of  your  order  run  before 
To  see  such  sights  as  sexual  prejudice 
And  marriage-law  dissolved — in  plainer  words, 
A  general  concubinage  expressed 
[n  a  universal  prurienc}' — the  thing 
Is  scarce  worth  running  fast  for,  and  3'ou'd  gain 
B}'  loitering  with  your  elders." 

"  Ah,"  he  said 
"  Who,  getting  to  the  top  of  Pisgah-hill, 
Can  talk  with  one  at  bottom  of  the  view, 
To  make  it  comprehensible  ?     Why,  Leigh 
Himself,  although  our  ablest  man,  1  said, 
Is  scarce  advanced  to  see  as  far  as  this, 
"Wliich  some  are  :  he  takes  up  imperfectl.y 
'I'iu!  social  question — b}'  one  handle — leaves 
The  rest  to  trail.     A  Christian  socialist. 
Is  Bomney  Leigh,  you  understand." 

"  Xot  L 
1  disbelieve  in  Christian-pagans,  much 
As  you  in  women-fishes.     If  we  mix 
Two  colors,  we  lose  both,  and  make  a  third 
Distinct  from  either.     Mark  3'ou  !  to  mistake 
A  color  is  the  sign  of  a  sick  brain, 
And  mine,  I  thank  the  saints,  is  clear  and  cool : 
A  neutral  tint  is  here  impossible. 
The  church — and  b}^  the  church,  I  mean,  of  course, 
The  catholic,  apostolic,  mother-church — 
Draws  lines  as  plain  and  straight  as  her  own  wall ; 
Inside  of  which,  are  Christians,  obviously'. 
And  outside  .  .  dogs." 

"We  thank  yon.     Well  I  kno\^ 
The  ancient  mother-church  would  fain  slill  bite 
For  all  her  toothless  gums — as  Leigh  himself 
Would  fain  be  a  Christian  still,  for  all  his  wit ; 
Pass  that ;  you  two  may  settle  it,  for  me. 


308  AURORA     LEIGH, 

You're  slow  in  England.     In  a  month  I  learnt 

At  Gottingen,  enough  philosophy 

'Vo  stock  your  English  schools  for  fifty  years ; 

Pass  that,  too.     Here,  alone,  I  stop  you  short, 

— Supposing  a  true  man  like  Leigh  could  stand 

Uvequal  in  the  stature  of  his  life 

To  the  height  of  his  opinions.     Clioose  a  wife 

Because  of  a  smooth  skin  ? — not  he,  not  he  ! 

He'd  I'ail  at  Venus'  self  for  creaking  shoes, 

Unless  she  walked  his  way  of  righteousness  : 

And  if  he  takes  a  Yenus  Meretrix, 

(No  imputation  on  the  lady  there) 

Be  sure  that,  by  some  sleight  of  Christian  art. 

He  has  metamorphosed  and  converted  her 

To  a  Blessed  Virgin." 

"  Soft !"  Sir  Blaise  drew  breath 
As  if  it  hurt  him — "  Soft !  no  blasphemy, 
I  pray  you  !" 

"  The  first  Christians  did  tlie  thing  , 
Wh}^  not  the  last?"  asked  he  of  Gottingen, 
With  just  that  shade  of  sneering  on  the  lip, 
Compensates  for  tlie  lagging  of  the  beard — 
"  And  so  the  case  is.     If  that  fairest  fair 
Is  talked  of  as  the  future  wife  of  Leigli, 
She's  talked  of,  too,  at  least  as  certainly. 
As  Leigh's  disciple.     You  ma}'  find  her  name 
On  all  his  missions  and  commissions,  schools, 
Asylums,  hospitals — he  has  had  her  down, 
With  other  ladies  whom  her  starry  lead 
Persuaded  from  their  spheres,  to  his  countn-place 
In  Shropshire,  to  the  famed  plialanster^' 
At  Leigh  Hall,  christianized  from  Fourier's  own, 
(In  which  he  luis  planted  out  his  sapling  stocks 
Of  knowledge  into  social  nurseries) 
And  there,  the^'  say,  she  has  tarried  half  a  week, 
And  milked  the  cows,  and   churned,  and    pressed  the 

curd. 
And  said,  '  my  sister  '  to  the  lowest  drab 
Of  all  the  assembled  castawaj^s  ;  such  girls  ! 
Ay,  sided  with  them  at  the  washing-tub — 
Conceive,  Sir  Blaise,  those  naked  perfect  arms. 
Round  glittering  arms,  plunged  elbow-deep  in  suds, 
Like  wild  swans  hid  in  lilies  all  a-shake." 

Lord  Howe  came  up.     "  What,  talking  poetry 
Bo  near  the  image  of  the  unfavoring  Ylixsg? 


AURORA     LEIGH.  ^  ;jO},i 

That's  you,  Miss  Leigh;  I've  watched  3^ou  half   an 
hour, 

Precisely  as  I  watched  the  statue  called 

A  Pallas  in  the  Vatican  ; — 3'ou  mind 

The  face,  Sir  Blaise? — intensely  calm  and  sad, 

As  wisdom  cut  it  off  from  fellowship— 

But  ilial  spoke  louder.     Not  a  word  from  you! 

And  these  two  gentlemen  were  bold,  I  marked, 

And  unabashed  by  even  3'our  silence." 

"Ah," 
Said  I,  "  my  dear  Lord  ITowe,  you  shall  not  speak 
'Vo  a  printing  woman  who  has  lost  her  place, 
(The  sweet  safe  corner  of  the  household  fire 
jjehind  the  heads  of  children)  compliments 
As  if  she  were  a  woman.     We  who  have  dipt 
The  curls  before  our  eyes,  ma}^  see  at  least 
As  plain  as  men  do:  speak  out,  man  to  man  ; 
No  compliments  beseech  you." 

"  Friend  to  friend. 
Let  that  be.     We  are  sad  to-night,  I  saw, 
( — Good    night.     Sir    Blaise!     Ah,     Smith— he     has 

slipped  away) 
I  saw  3'ou  across  the  room,  and  staj^ed,  Miss  Leio-h, 
To  keep  a  crowd  of  lion-hunters  off, 
With  faces  toward  your  jungle.     There  were  three; 
A  spacious  lady,  five  feet  ten  and  fat. 
Who  has  the  devil  in  her  (and  there's  room) 
For  walking  to  and  fro.  upon  the  earth, 
From  Cliii)ewa  to  China;  she  requires 
Your  autograph  upon  a  tinted  leaf 
'Twixt  Queen  Pomare's  and  Emperor  Soulouque's; 
Pray  give  it;  she  has  energies,  though  fat : 
For  me,  Pd  rather  see  a  riek  on  fire 
Thtin  such  a  woman  angr}'.     Then  a  youth 
Fresh  from  the  backwoods,  green  as  the  underboughs, 
Asks  modestly,  Miss  Leigh,  to  kiss  3'our  shoe, 
And  adds,  he  has  an  epic,  in  twelve  parts, 
M'hich  when  you've  read,  you'll  do  it  for  his  boot — 
All  which  I  saved  3'on,  and  absorb  next  week 
]?oth  manuscript  and  man — because  a  lord 
Is  still  more  potent  than  a  poetess. 
With  an3'  extreme  republican.     Ah,  ah, 
You  smile  at  last,  then." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  Leave  the  smile, 
I'll  lose  the  thanks  for't — a}',  and  throw  you  in 


310  AURORA     LEIGH 

My  transatlantic  girl,  with  golden  eyes, 
Tbift  draw  you  to  her  splendid  whiteness,  as 
The  pistil  of  a  water-lily  draws, 
Adust  with  gold.     Those  girls  across  the  sea 
Are  tyrannously  pretty — and  I  swore 
(She  seemed  to  me  an  innocent,  frank  girl, 
To  bring  her  to  j'ou  for  a  woman's  kiss, 
Not  now,  but  on  some  other  day  or  week : 
—We'll  call  it  perjury  ;  I  give  her  up." 

"  No,  bring  her." 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  You  make  it  hard 
To  touch  such  goodness  with  a  grimy  palm. 
I  thought  to  tease  you  well,  and  fret  you  cross, 
And  steel  myself,  when  rightly  vexed  with  you, 
For  telling  you  a  thing  to  tease  you  more." 

"  Of  Romney?" 

"  No,  no  ;  nothing  worse,"  he  cried, 
"  Of  Romney  Leigh,  than  what  is  buzzed  about — 
That  he  is  taken  in  an  eyetrap  too, 
Like  many  half  as  wise.     The  thing  I  mean 
Refers  to  you,  not  him." 

"  Refers  to  me." 
He  echoed — "  Me !     You  sound  it  like  a  stone 
Dropped  down  a  dry  well  very  listlessly, 
Bv  one  who  never  thinks  about  the  toad 
Alive  at  the  bottom.     Presently  perhaps 
You'll  sound  your  '  me  '  more  proudly— till  I  shrink." 

"  Lord  Howe's  the  toad,  then,  in  this  question  ?" 

"  Brief, 
We'll  take  it  graver.     Give  me  sofa-room, 
And  quiet  hearing.     You  know  Eglinton, 
John  Eglinton,  of  Eglinton  in  Kent?" 

"  Is  he  the  toad? — he's  rather  like  the  snail ; 
Known  chiefly  for  the  house  upon  his  back : 
Divide  the  man  and  house — 3'ou  kill  the  man  : 
That's  Eglinton  of  Eglinton,  Lord  Howe." 
He  answered  grave.     "  A  reputable  man, 
An  excellent  landlord  of  the  olden  stamp, 
If  somewhat  slack  in  new  philanthropies  ; 
Who  keeps  his  birthdays  with  a  tenants'  dance, 
Is  hard  upon  them  when  they  miss  the  church 
Or  keep  their  children  back  from  catechism. 


AURORA     LEI  a  II.  311 

But  not  ungentle  when  the  aged  poor 
Pick  sticks  at  hedge-sides  ;  nay,  I've  heard  him  say, 
'  The  ohl  dame  has  a  twinge  because  she  stoops: 
Tiiat's  punishment  enough  for  felony.'  " 

'  0  tender-hearted  landlord  !     jNfay  I  take 
My  long  lease  with  him,  Avhen  tlie  time  arrives 
For  gatliering  winter-faggots  1" 

"  He  likes  art, 
Buys  books  and  pictures  .  .  of  a  certain  kind  ; 
Neglects  no  patent  duty  ;  a  good  son  "... 

"  To  a  most  obedient  mother.     Born  to  we:uf 
His  father's  shoes,  he  wears  her  husband'.s  too  : 
Indeed,  I've  heard  its  touching-.     Dear  Lord   Howe 
You  shall  not  praise  me  so  against  your  heart, 
When  I'm  at  worst  for  praise  and  faggots." 

"Be 
Less  bitter  with  me,  for  .  .  in  sliort,"  he  said, 
"  I  have  a  letter,  which  he  urged  me  so 
To  bring  you  .  .  I  could  scarcely  choose  but  3  ield; 
Insisting  that  a  new  love  pn.ssing  through 
The  liand  of  an  old  friendship,  caught  from  it 
Some  reconciling  perfume." 

"  Love,  you  say  ? 
My  lord,  I  cannot  love.     I  only  lind 
Tiie  rhymes  for  love — and  that's  not  love,  my  lord. 
Take  back  3-our  letter." 

"  Pause  :  3'ou'll  read  it  first?" 

"  I  will  not  read  it:  it  is  stereotyped  ; 

The  same  he  wrote  to — anybody's  name — 

Anne  Blythe,  the  actress,  when  she  had  died  so  true, 

A  duchess  fainted  in  an  open  box  : 

Pauline,  the  dancer,  after  tlie  great  jyas, 

In  which  her  little  feet  winked  overhead 

Like  other  fire-flies,  and  amazed  the  pit: 

Or  Baldinacci,  when  her  F  in  alt 

Had  touched  the  silver  tops  of  heaven  itself 

With  such  a  pungent  soul-dart,  even  the  Queen 

Laid  softly,  each  to  each,  her  white-gloved  ])alms, 

And  sighed  for  jo}':  or  else  (I  thank  3'our  friend) 

Aurora  Leigh — when  some  indiiferent  rhymes, 

Like  those  the  bo3's  sang  round  the  hoi}'  ox 

On  .Memphis-road,  liave  chanced,  perhaps,  to  set 

Our  Apis-i)ublic  lowing.     Oh,  he  wants, 


;j  J  -2  A  U  R  0  R  A      L  E  I  G  H  » 

Instead  of  any  worthy  wife  at  home, 

A  star  upon  his  stage  of  Eglinton  ! 

Advise  him  that  he  is  not  overshrewd 

In  being  so  little  modest :  a  dropped  star 

Makes  bitter  waters,  says  a  Book  I've  read — 

And  there's  his  unread  letter." 

"  M}-  dear  friend, " 
Lord  Howe  began  .  . 

In  haste  I  tore  the  phrase. 
"You  mean  j'our  friend  of  I^lglinton,  or  me?" 

"I  mean  you,  ,you,"  he  answered  witli  some  fire. 

"A  happ_y  life  means  prndent  compromise  ; 

The  tare  runs  through  the  fanner's  garnered  shoaves  ; 

But  though  the  gleanei^'s  apron  holds  pure  wlu-at, 

We  count  her  poorer.     Tare  with  wiieat,  we  cry, 

And  good  with  drawbacks.     You,  you  love  your  art, 

And,  certain  of  Avocation,  set  your  soul 

On  utterance.     Only,  .   .  in  this  world  we  have  made, 

(They  say  God  made  it  first,  but,  if  He  did, 

'Tvvas  so  long  since,  .   .  and,  since,  we  have  spoiled 

it  so, 
He  scarce  would  know  it,  if  He  looked  this  wav, 
From  hells  we  preach  of,  with  the  flames  blown  out,) 
In  this  bad,  twisted,  topsy-turv^'  world, 
Where  all  the  heaviest  wrongs  get  uppermost — 
In  this  uneven,  unfostering  England  here. 
Where   ledger-strokes    and     sword-strokes    count   in- 
deed, 
But  soul-strokes  merely  tell  upon  the  flesh 
The}'  strike  from — it  is  hard  to  stand  for  art, 
Unless  some  golden  tripod  from  the  sea 
Be  fished  up,  by  Apollo's  divine  chance, 
To  throne  such  feet  as  yours,  my  pro|)lietess. 
At  Delphi.     Think — the  god  comes  down  as  fierce 
As  twenty  bloodhounds!  shakes  you,  strangles  you. 
Until  the  oracular  shriek  shall  ooze  in  froth  ! 
At  best  it's  not  all  ease — at  worst  too  hard  : 
A  place  to  stand  on  is  a  'vantage  gained. 
And  here's  j'our  tripod.     To  be  plain,  dear  friend, 
You're  poor,  except  in  what  you  richly  give; 
You  labor  for  3'our  own  bread  painfully, 
Or  ere  you  pour  our  vvine.     P'or  art's  sake,  pause." 

I  answered  slow — as  some  wayfaring  man, 


A  U  R  O  R  A     L  E  I  G  H  .  3  1  ."i 

Who  feels  himself  at  night  too  far  from  home, 
Mako.  steadfast  face  against  the  bitter  wind. 
■  Is  art  so  less  a  thing  than  virtue  is, 
That  artists  first  must  cater  for  their  case 
Oi  pver  they  make  issue  past  themselves 
To  generous  use?  alas,  and  is  it  so, 
That  we,  who  would  be  somewhat  clean,  must  sweep 
Our  ways  as  well  as  vvalk  them,  and  no  friend 
( ■onlirni  us  nobly — '  Leave  results  to  God, 
Bill  you  be  clean  ?'     What !  '  prudent  compromise 
Makes  acceptable  life,'  you  say  instead. 
You,  you,  Lord  Howe? — in  things  indifferent,  well 
For  instance,  comi)romise  the  wheaten  bread 
For  rye,  the  meat  for  lentils,  silk  for  serge. 
And  sU'cp  on  down,  if  needs,  for  sleep  on  straw; 
But  there,  end  compromise.      I  will  not  bate 
One  artist-dream,  on  straw  or  down,  m^'  lord. 
Nor  pinch  my  liberal  soul,  though  I  be  poor, 
Nor  cease  to  love  high,  though  1  live  thus  low." 

So  speaking,  with  less  anger  in  my  voice 

Than  sorrow,  I  rose  quickly  to  depart; 

While  he,  thrown  back  upon  the  noble  shame 

Of  such  high-stumbling  natures,  murmured  words, 

The  right  words  after  wrong  ones.     Ah,  the  man 

Is  worthy,  but  so  given  to  entertain 

Impossible  plans  of  superhuman  life — • 

He  sets  his  virtues  on  so  raised  a  shelf, 

To  keep  them  at  the  grand  millennial  height, 

He  has  to  mount  a  stool  to  get  at  them  ; 

And  meantime,  lives  on  quite  the  common  way, 

With  everj'body's  morals. 

As  we  passed, 
Lord  Howe  insisting  that  his  friendly  arm 
Should  oar  me  across  the  sparkling,  brawling  stream 
Which  swept  from  room  to  room,  we  fell  at  once 
On  Lady  Waldemar.     "  Miss  Leigh,"  she  said. 
And  gave  me  such  a  smile,  so  cold  and  bright. 
As  if  she  tried  it  in  a'  tiring  glass    * 
And  liked  it  ;  "  all  to-night  I've  strained  at  3^ou, 
As  babes  at  baubles  held  up  out  of  reach 
By  spiteful  nurses,  ('  Never  snatch,'  they  sa}',/ 
And  there  you  sat,  most  perfectly  shut  in 
By  good  Sir  Blaise  and  clever  Mister  Smith, 
Ami  then  our  dear  Lord  Howe!  at  last,  indeed, 
I  almost  snatched.     I  have  a  world  to  speak 
63* 


314  AURORA     LEIGH. 

About  j'our  cousin's  place  in  Shropshire,  where 

I've  been  to  see  his  work  .  .  our  work — 3'ou  heard 

I  went?  .  .  and  of  a  letter  yesterday, 

In  which,  if  I  should  read  a  page  or  two, 

You  might  feel    interest,   though    3'ou're   locked   of 

course 
In  literary  toil — You'll  like  to  hear 
Your  last  book  lies  at  the  phalanstery, 
As  judged  innocuous  for  the  elder  girls 
And  j'ounger  women  who  still  care  for  books. 
We  all  must  read,  you  see,  before  we  live: 
But  slowl}'^  the  ineffable  light  comes  up, 
And,  as  it  deepens,  drowns  the  written  word — 
So  said  your  cousin,  while  we  stood  and  felt 
A  sunset  from  his  favorite  beech-tree  seat : 
lie  might  have  been  a  poet  if  he  would. 
But  then  he  saw  the  higher  thing  at  once. 
And  climbed  to  it.     1  think  he  looks  well  now, 
Has  quite  got  over  that  unfortunate  .  . 
Ah,  ah  .  .  I  know  it  moved  3'OU.     Tender-heart  I 
You  took  a  liking  to  the  wretched  girl. 
Perhaps  you  thought  the  marriage  suitable, 
"Who  knows  ?     A  poet  hankers  for  romance, 
And  so  on.     As  for  Romne}'  Leigh,  'tis  sure 
He  never  loved  her — never.     B}^  the  wa}-, 
You  have  not  heard  o^  her  .  .  ?  quite  out  of  sight. 
And  out  of  saving  ?  lost  in  every  sense  ?" 

She  might  have  gone  on  talking  half  an  hour. 

And  I  stood  still,  and  cold,  and  pale,  I  think, 

As  a  garden-statue  a  child  pelts  with  snow 

For  petty  pastime.     Ever}'  now  and  then 

I  put  in  "yes"  or  "no,"  I  scarce  knew  why; 

The  blind  man  walks  wlierever  the  dog  pulls, 

And  so  I  answered.     Till  Lord  Howe  broke  in  ; 

"  What  penance  takes  the  wretch  who  interrupts 

The  talk  of  charming  women  ?      I,  at  last, 

jMust  brave  it.     Pardon,  Lady  Walderaar  ! 

The  lady  on  my  arm  is  tired,  unwell, 

And  loyally  I've  promised  she  shall  sa\' 

Nor  iiarder  word  this  evening,  than  .  .  good-night; 

The  rest  her  face  speaks  for  her." — Then  we  went. 

And  I  breathe  large  at  home.     I  drop  my  cloak, 
Unclasp  my  girdle,  loose  the  band  that  ties 
M3'  hair  .  .  now  could  I  but  unloose  my  soul! 
We  are  sepulchred  alive  in  this  close  world, 
And  want  more  room. 


AURORA     LEIGH.  315 

The  charming  woman  tliere — 
This  reckoning  up  and  writing  down  lier  talk 
Affects  mc  singularl}'.     How  slie  talked 
To  pain  me  !  woman's  spite! — Von  wear  steel-mail ; 
A  woman  takes  a  housewife  from  her  breast, 
And  plueks  the  delicatest  needle  out 
As  'twere  a  rose,  and  pricks  you  carefully 
'Neath  nails,  'neath  eyelids,  in  3'our  nostrils — say, 
A  beast  would  roar  so  tortured — but  a  man, 
A  human  creature,  must  nc^t,  shall  not  flinch. 
No,  not  for  shame. 

What  vexes  after  all, 
Is  just  that  such  as  she,  with  such  as  I, 
Kr.ows  how  to  vex.     Sweet  heaven,  she  takes  me  up 
As  if  she  had  fingered  me  and  dog-eared  nie 
And  spelled  me  hy  the  fireside,  half  a  life  ! 
She  knows  nu'  turns,  my  feeble  points. — What  then? 
The  knowledge  of  a  thing  implies  the  thing; 
Of  course,  she  found  (hat  in  me,  slie  saw  that, 
Her  pencil  underscored  thi.^  for  a  fault. 
And  I,  still  ignorant.     Shut  tiie  book  up !  close  ! 
And  crush  that  beetle  in  the  leaves. 

0  heart, 
At  last  we  shall  grow  hard  too,  like  the  rest, 
And  call  it  self-defence  because  we  are  soft. 

And  after  all,  now,  .  .   why  should  I  be  pained. 

That  llomney  Leigli,  my  cousin,  should  espouse 

This  Lad}'  Waldemar?     And,  sa}',  she  held 

Her  newl}'  blossomed  gladness  in  my  face, 

'Twas  natural  surely,  if  not  generous, 

Considering  how,  when  winter  held  iier  fast, 

I  lielped  the  frost  with  mine,  and  pained  her  more 

Than    she    pains    me.     Pains    me!  —  but    wherefore 

pained  ? 
'Tis  clear  my  cousin  Romney  wants  a  wife — 
So,  good  ! — The  man's  need  of  the  woman,  here. 
Is  greater  than  the  woman's  of  the  man. 
And  easier  served  ;  for  where  the  man  discerns 
A  sex,  (ah,  ah,  the  man  can  generalize, 
Said  he)  we  see  but  one,  ideall}^ 
And  really:  where  we  3'earn  to  lose  ourselves 
And  melt  like  white  pearls  in  another'.s  wine. 
He  seeks  to  double  himself  by  what  he  loves. 
And  make  his  drink  more  costly  by  our  pearls. 
At  board,  at  bed,  at  work,  and  holiday, 


;:!1G  AURORA     LEIGH. 

rt  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone — 

And  that's  his  waj-  of  tliinking,  first  and  last ; 

And  thus  my  (iousin  Romney  wants  a  wife. 

But  then  m}^  cousin  sets  his  dignity 

On  personal  virtue.     If  he  understands 

By  love,  lil<e  others,  self-aggrandizement, 

It  is  that  he  may  verily  be  great 

By  doing  rightly  and  kiudl}'.     Once  he  thought, 

For  charitable  ends  set  duly  forth 

In  heaven's  white  judgment-book,  to  marry  .  .  ah, 

We'll  call  her  name  Aurora  Leigh,  although 

She's  changed  since  then  ! — and  once,  for  social  ends 

Poor  Mariiin  Erie,  nriy  sister  Marian  Erie, 

^\y  Woodland  sister,  sweet  Maid  Marian, 

Whose  memory  moans  on  in  me  like  the  wind 

Through  ill-shut  easements,  making  me  more  sad 

Than  ever  I  find  reasons  for.     Alas, 

Poor  pretty  plaintive  face,  embodied  ghost, 

He  finds  it  easy,  then,  to  clap  thee  off 

From  pulling  at  his  aleeve  and  book  and  pen — 

He  locks  thee  out  at  night  into  the  cold. 

Away  from  butting  with  thy  horny  e^'cs 

Against  his  crystal  dreams — that,  now,  he's  strong 

To  love  anew?  that  Lady  Waldemar 

Succeeds  my  Marian? 

After  all,  why  not  ? 
He  loved  not  Marian,  more  than  once  he  loved 
Aurora.     If  he  loves,  at  last,  that  Third, 
Albeit  she  prove  as  slippery  as  spilt  oil 
On  marble  floor,  I  will  not  augur  him 
111  luck  for  that.     Good  love,  howe'er  ill-placed. 
Is  better  for  a  man's  soul  in  the  end. 
Than  if  he  loved  ill  what  deserves  love  well. 
A  pagan,  kissing,  for  a  step  of  Pan, 
The  wild-goat's  hoof-print  on  the  loamy  down. 
Exceeds  our  modern  thinker  who  turns  back 
The  strata  .  .  granite,  limestone,  coal,  and  clay, 
Concluding  coldly  with,  "  Here's  law!  Where's  God  ?' 

And  then  at  worse — if  Romney  loves  her  not — 

At  worst — if  he's  incapable  of  love. 

Which  may  be — then  indeed,  for  such  a  man 

Incapable  of  love,  she's  good  enough  ; 

For  she,  at  worst  too,  is  a  woman  still 

And  loves  him  as  the  sort  of  woman  can. 


AURORA     LEIGH.  317 

My  loose  long  hair  began  to  burn  and  creep, 

Alive  to  the  very  ends,  about  my  knees  : 

I  swept  it  backward  as  tlie  wind  sweeps  flame, 

With  the  passion  of  my  hands.     All,  Komney  h\  ighed 

One  da^^  .  .   (how  full  the  memories  came  up  !) 

" — Your  Florence  fire-flies  live  on  in  3^our  hair," 

He  said,  "  it  gleams  so."     Well,  1  wrung  them  out, 

My  fire-flies  ;  made  a  knot  as  hard  as  life, 

Of  those  loose,  soft,  iinpracticable  curls. 

And  then  sat  down   and  thought  .  .  "  She  shall  not 

think 
Her  thoughts  of  me," — and  drew  ray  desk  and  wrote. 

"  Dear  Lady  Waldemar,  I  could  not  speak 
With  people  round  me,  nor  can  sleep  to-night 
And  not  speak,  after  the  great  news  I  heard 
Of  3'ou  and  of  my  cousin.     May  you  be 
Most  happy  ;  and  the  good  he  meant  the  world, 
Replenish  his  own  life.     Say  what  I  say. 
And  let  my  word  be  sweeter  for  3'our  mouth, 
As  you  are  you  .  .  I  onl}^  Aurora  Leigh." 

That's  quiet,  guarded  !     Though  she  hold  it  up 
Against  the  light,  she'll  not  see  through  it  more 
Than  lies  there  to  be  seen.     So  n)uch  for  pride; 
And  now  for  peace,  a  little  !     Let  me  stop 
All   writing    back  .  .  "  Sweet    thanks,    my   sweetest 

friend, 
You've  made  more  joyful  my  great  joy  itself" 
■ — No,  that's  too  simple !  she  would  twist  it  thus, 
"  My  joy  would  still  be  as  sweet  as  thyme  in  drawers, 
However  shut  up  in  the  dark  and  dry  ; 
But  violets,  aired  and  dewed  by  love  like  yours. 
Out-smell  <dl  thyme!  we  keep  that  in  our  clothes 
But  drop  the  other  down  our  bosoms,  till 
They  smell  like  "  ,  .  ah,  I  see  her  writing  back 
Just  so.     She'll  make  a  nosegay  of  her  words, 
And  tie  it  with  blue  ribbons  at  the  end 
To  suit  a  poet ; — pshaw  ! 

And  then  we'll  '.lave 
The  call  to  church  ;  the  broken,  sad,  bad  dream 
Dreamed  out  at  last;  the  marriage-vow  complete 
With  the  marriage-breakfast ;  praying  in  white  gloves, 
Drawn  off  in  haste  for  drinking  pagan  toasts 
In  somewhat  stronger  wine  than  any  sipped 
By  gods,  since  Bacchus  had  hi'  ^'ay  witli  graues. 


/?18  AURORA      LEIGH. 

A  postscript  stops  all  that,  and  rescues  rae. 
"  You  need  not  write.     I  have  been  overworked. 
And  think  of  leavintr  London,  England  even, 
And  hastening  to  get  nearer  to  the  sun, 
Where  men  sleep  better.  ■  So,  adieu," — I  fold 

And  seal and  now  I'm  out  of  all  the  coil  ; 

1  breathe  no\v ;  I  spring  upward  like  a  branch, 

A  ten-3'cars  school-boy  with  a  crooked  stick 

May  pull  down  to  his  level,  in  search  of  nuts, 

But  cannot  hold  a  moment.     How  we  twang 

]3ack  on  the  blue  sk}',  and  assert  our  height, 

While  he  stares  after !     Now,  the  wonder  seems 

That  1  could  wrong  myself  by  such  a  doubt. 

We  poets  always  have  uneas}'  hearts ; 

Because  our  hearts,  large-rounded  as  the  globe, 

Can  turn  but  one  side  to  the  sun  at  once. 

We  are  used  to  dij)  our  artist-hands  in  gall 

A\\(\  potash,  trying  potentialities 

Of  altei'uated  color,  till  at  last 

We  get  confused,  and  wonder  for  our  skin 

How  nature  tinged  it  first.     Well — here's  the  true 

Good  flesli-color  ;  1  recognize  my  hand  — 

Whicli  llonmey  Leigh  may  clasp  as  just  a  friend's, 

And  keep  his  clean. 

And  now,  m^'  Ital3\ 
Alas,  if  we  could  ride  with  naked  souls 
And  make  no  noise  and  pay  no  price  at  all, 
I  would  have  seen  thee  sooner,  Italy — 
For  still  I  have  heard  thee  crying  through  ray  life, 
Thou  piercing  silence  of  extatic  graves, 
Men  call  that  name  ! 

But  even  a  witch,  to-daj'- 
Must  melt  down  golden  pieces  in  the  nard 
Wherewith  to  anoint  her  broomstick  ere  she  rides; 
And  poets  everm;)re  are  scant  of  gold. 
And,  if  they  find  a  piece  behind  the  door, 
It  turns  by  sunset  to  a  withered  leaf. 
The  Devil  himself  scarce  trusts  his  patented 
Gold-maliing  art  to  any  who  make  rhymes, 
But  culls  his  Faustus  from  philosophers 
And  not  from  poets.     "  Leave  my  Job,"  said  God; 
And  so,  the  Devil  leaves  him  without  pence. 
And  povert}'  proves,  phunly,  special  grace. 
In  these  new,  just,  administrative  times 
Men  clamor  for  an  order  of  merit.     Why  ? 


A  L'  R  O  R  A     L  E  r  G  H  .  Til! 

Bore's  black  bread  on  the  table,  and  no  wine! 

At  least  I  am  a  poet  in  being  poor; 

Thank  God.     I  wonder  if  tiie  manuscript 

Of  my  long  poem,  if  'twere  sold  outright, 

Would  fetch  enough  to  bu}'  me  shoes,  to  go 

A-foot,  (thrown  in,  the  necessary  patch 

Tor  the  other  side  the  Alps)  ?   it  cannot  be  : 

I  fear  that  I  must  sell  this  residue 

Of  my  father's  books  ;  although  the  ElzevirH 

Have  fly-leaves  over-written  by  his  hand. 

In  faded  notes  as  thick  and  fine  and  brown 

As  cobwebs  on  a  tavviiy  monument 

Of  the  Old  Greeks — confercnda  haec  cum  Iris — ■ 

Corrupts  citat — lege  poliiis. 

And  so  on,  in  the  scholar's  regal  way 

Of  giving  judgment  on  the  parts  of  speech, 

As  if  he  sat  on  all  twelve  thrones  ui)-piled, 

Arraigning  Israel.     Ay,  but  books  and  notes 

Must  go  together.      And  this  Proclus  too, 

In  quaintl\'  dear  contracted  Grecian  types, 

Fantastically  crumphul,  like  his  thoughts 

Which  would  not  seem  too  plain  ;  you  go  round  twice 

P^or  one  step  forward,  then  you  take  it  back, 

Because  you're  somewhat  giddy  !     tiiere's  the  rulo 

For  Proclus.     Ah,  I  stained  this  middle  leaf 

With  pressing  in't  my  Florence  iris-bell, 

liong  stalk  and  all ;  my  father  chided  me 

For  that  stain  of  blue  blood — I  recollect 

The  peevish  turn  his  voice  took — "  Silly  girls, 

Who  plant  their  flowers  in  our  philosoi)hy 

To  make  it  fine,  and  only  spoil  the  book ! 

No  more  of  it  Aurora."     Yes — no  more  ! 

Ah,  blame  of  love,  that's  sweeter  than  all  praise 

Of  those  who  love  not  1  'tis  so  lost  to  me, 

I  cannot,  in  such  beggared  life,  afford 

To  lose  my  Proclus.     Not  for  Florence,  even. 

The  kissing  Judas,  Wolff,  shall  go  instead, 
Who  builds  us  such  a  royal  book  as  this 
To  honor  a  chief-poet,  folio-built 
And  writes  above,  "  The  house  of  Nobody :  " 
Who  floats  in  cream,  as  rich  as  any  sucked 
Prom  Juno's  breasts,  the  broad  Homeric  lines, 
And,  while  with  their  spondaic   prodigious  mouths 
They  lap  the  lucent  margins  as  babe-gods. 
Proclaims  them  bastards.      Wolff's  an  atheist 


320  AURORA     LEIOH. 

And  if  the  Iliad  fell  out,  as  he  says, 

By  n\ere  fortuitous  concourse  of  old  songs, 

We'll  guess  as  much,  too,  for  the  universe. 

That  Wolff,  those  Platos :  sweep  the  upper  shelves 
As  clean  as  this,  and  so  I  am  almost  rich. 
Which  means,  not  forced  to  think  of  being  poor 
In  sight  of  ends.     To-morrow  :  no  delay. 
I'll  wait  in  Paris  till  good  Carrington 
Dispose  of  such,  and,  having  chaffered  for 
My  book's  price  with  the  publisher,  direct 
All  proceeds  to  me.     Just  a  line  to  ask 
His  help. 

And  now  I  come,  my  Italy, 
My  own  hills  !  are  you  'ware  of  me,  my  hills, 
How  I  burn  toward  you  ?  do  you  feel  to-night 
The  urgency  and  yearning  of  my  soul. 
As  sleeping  mothers  feel  the  sucking  babe 
And  smile  I — Na}',  not  so  much  as  when,  in   heat, 
Yain  lightnings  catch  at  your  inviolate  tops. 
And  tremble  while  3-6  are  stedfast.     Still,  ye  go 
Your  own  determined,  calm,  indifferent  way 
Toward  sunrise,  shade  by  shade,  and  light  by  Hghtj 
Of  all  the  grand  progression  nought  left  out ; 
As  if  God  veril}'  made  3'ou  for  j-ourselves. 
And  would  not  interrupt  j^our  life  with  ours. 


SIXTH  BOOK. 

The  English  have  a  scornful  insular  way 
Of  calling  the  French  light.     The  levity 
Is  in  the  judgment  only,  which  yet  stands; 
For  saj^  a  foolish  thing  but  oft  enough, 
(And  here's  the  secret  of  a  hundred  creeds — 
Men  get  opinions  as  bo\'s  learn  to  spell. 
By  re-iteration  chiefly)  the  same  thing 
Shall  pass  at  least  for  absolutel}'  wise, 
And  not  with  fools  exclusively.     And  so. 
We  say  tiie  French  are  light,  as  if  we  said 
The  cat  mews,  or  the  milch-cow  gives  us  milk; 
Say  rather,  cats  are  milked,  and  milch-cows  mew  ; 
For  what  is  lightness  but  inconsequence, 
Vague  fluctuation  'twixt  effect  and  cause, 


AURORA     LEIGH  32! 

Compelled  by  neither?     Is  a  bullet  light, 
That  dashes  from  the  gun-mouth,  while  the  eye 
Winks,  and  the  heart  beats  one,  to  flatten  itself 
To  a  wafer  on  the  white  speck  on  a  wall 
A  hundred  paces  off?     Even  so  direct, 
So  sternly  undivertible  of  aim. 
Is  this  French  people. 

All  idealists 
Too  absolute  and  earnest,  with  them  all 
The  idea  of  a  knife  cuts  real  flesh ; 
And  still,  devouring  the  safe  interval 
Whicli  Nature  placed  between  the  thought  and  act, 
With  those  too  fiery  and  impatient  souls, 
Tiic}^  threaten  contiagratiou  to  the  world 
And  rush  with  most  unscrupulous  logic  on 
Impossible  practice.     Set  your  orators 
To  blow  upon  them  with  loud  windy  mouths 
Thi'ough  watchword  phrases,  jest  or  sentiment, 
Which  drive  our  burley  brutal  English  mobs 
Like  so  much  chaff,  whichever  way  they  blow — • 
This  light  French  people  will  not  thus  be  driven. 
They  turn  indeed  ;  but  then  they  turn  upon 
Some  central  pivot  of  their  thought  anil  choice. 
And  veer  out  by  the  force  of  holding  fast. 
— That's  hard  to  understand,  for  Englishmen 
Unused  to  abstract  questions,  and  untrained 
To  trace  the  involutions,  valve  by  valve. 
In  each  orbed  bulb-root  of  a  general  truth. 
And  mark  what  subtly  fine  integument 
Divides  opposed  compartments.     Freedom's  self 
Comes  concrete  to  us,  to  be  understood, 
P'ixed  in.  a  feudal  form  incarnatel}' 
To  suit  our  waj's  of  thought  and  reverence, 
The  special  form,  with  us,  being  still  the  thing. 
With  us,  I  say,  though  I'm  of  Italy 
My  mother's  birth  and  grave,  by  father's  grave    * 
And  memor}' ;  let  it  be — a  poet's  heart 
Can  s'wcll  to  a  pair  of  nationalities. 
However  ill-lodged  in  a  woman's  breast. 

And  so  I  am  strong  to  love  this  noble  France, 

This  poet  of  the  nations,  who  dreams  on 

And  wails  on  (while  the  household  goes  to  wreck) 

For  ever,  after  some  ideal  good — • 

Some  equal  poise  of  sex,  some  unvowed  love 

Inviolate,  some  spontaneous  brotherhood. 


322  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Some  wealth,  that  leaves  none  poor  and    finds  none 

tired, 
Some  freedom  of  the  many,  that  respects 
The  wisdom  of  the  few.     Heroic  dreams! 
Sublime,  to  dream  so;  natural,  to  wake: 
And  sad,  to  use  such  loft}'  scaffoldings, 
Erected  for  the  building  of  a  church. 
To  build  instead,  a  brothel  .  .  or  a  prison — 
Ma}'  God  save  France! 

However  she  have  sighed 
Her  great  soul  up  into  a  great  man's  face, 
To  flush  his  temples  out  so  gloriously 
That  few  dare  carp  at  Caesar  for  being  bald. 
What  then  ? — this  Caisar  repi'esents,  not  reigns, 
A.nd  is  not  despot,  though  twice  absolute  ; 
This  Head  has  all  the  people  for  a  heart ; 
This  purple's  lined  with  the  democracy — 
Now  let  him  see  to  it !  for  a  rent  within 
Must  leave  irreparable  rags  without. 

A  serious  riddle;  find  such  any  where 

Except  in  France ;  and  when  it's  found  in  France, 

Be  sure  to  read  it  rightly.     So,  I  mused 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down,  the  terraced  streets, 

The  glittering  Boulevards,  the  white  colonnades 

Of  fair  fantastic  Paris  who  wears  boughs 

Like  plumes,  as  if  man  made  them — tossing  up 

Her  fountains  in  the  sunshine  from  the  squares, 

As  dice  i'  the  game  of  beauty,  sure  to  win  ; 

Or  as  she  blew  the  down-balls  of  her  dreams. 

And  onl_v  waited  for  their  falling  back, 

To  breathe  up  more,  and  count  her  festive  hours. 

Tiie  city  swims  in  verdure,  beautiful 

As  Venice  on  the  waters,  the  sea-swan. 

What  bosk}'  gardens,  dropped  in  close-walled  courts, 

As  plums  in  ladies'  laps,  who  start  and  laugh; 

What  miles  of  streets  that  run  on  after  trees, 

Still  carrying  the  necessary  shops, 

Those  open  caskets,  with  thj  jewels  seen  ! 

And  trade  is  art,  and  art's  philosophy, 

Jn  Paris.     There's  a  silk,  for  instauce,  there, 

As  worth  an  artist's  study  for  the  folds, 

As  tliat  bronze  opposite?  nay,  the  bronze  has  faults j 

Art's  here  too  artful — conscious  as  a  maid. 

Who  leans  to  mark  her  shadow  on  the  wall 


AURORA     LEIGH.  323 

Until  she  lose  a  'vantage  in  her  step. 

Yet  Art  walks  forward,  and  knows  where  to  walk: 

The  artists  also,  are  idealists, 

Too  absolute  for  nature,  logical 

To  austerit}^  in  the  application  of 

The  special  theory' :  not  a  soul  content 

To  paint  a  crooked  pollard  and  an  ass. 

As  the  English  will,  because  they  find  it  so, 

And  like  it  somehow. — Ah,  the  old  Tuileries 

Is  pulling  its  high  cap  down  on  its  eyes, 

Confounded,  conscience-stricken,  and  amazed 

By  the  apparition  of  a  new  fair  face 

In  those  devouring  mirrors.     Through  the  grate, 

AA''ithin  the  gardens,  what  a  heap  of  babes, 

Swept  up  like  leaves  beneath  the  chestnut-trees, 

From  ever}^  street  and  alley  of  the  town. 

By  the  ghosts  perhaps,  that  blow  too  bleak  this  \fay 

A-looking  for  their  heads  I     Dear  pretty  babes, 

I'll  wish  them  luck  to  have  their  ball-pla}'  out 

Before  the  next  change  comes. — And  farther  on, 

What  statues,  poised  upon  their  columns  fine. 

As  if  to  stand  a  moment  were  a  feat, 

Against  that  blue  1     What  squares  !  what  breathino 

room 
For  a  nation  that  runs  fast — ay,  runs  against 
The  dentist's  teeth  at  the  corner,  in  pale  rows, 
Which  grin  at  progress  in  an  epigram. 

I  walked  the  day  out,  listening  to  the  chink 

Of  the  first  Napoleon's  dr^^  bones,  as  they  lay 

In  his  second  grave  beneath  the  golden  dome 

That  caps  all  Paris  like  a  bubble.     "  Shall 

These  dry  bones  live,"  thought  Louis  Philippe  once, 

And  live  to  know.     Ilerein  is  argument 

For  kings  and  politicians,  but  still  more 

For  poets,  who  bear  buckets  to  the  well. 

Of  ampler  draught. 

These  crowds  are  very  good 
For  meditation  (when  we  are  very  strong). 
Though  love  of  beauty  makes  us  timorous, 
And  draws  us  backward  from  the  coarse  town-sights 
To  count  the  daisies  upon  dappled  fields. 
And  hear  the  streams  bleat  on  among  the  hills 
In  innocent  and  indolent  repose  ; 
While  still  with  silken  elegiac  thoughts 
We  wind  out  from  us  the  distracting  world, 


024  AUROEA     LEIGH. 

And  die  into  tlie  chrysalis  of  a  man, 

And  leave  the  best  that  may,  to  come  of  U8 

In  some  brown  moth.     Be,  rather,  bold,  and  bear 

To  look  into  the  swarthiest  face  of  things, 

P'or  God's  sake  who  has  made  them. 

Seven  da3's'  work 
The  last  day  shutting  'twixt  its  dawn  and  eve, 
The  whole  work  bettered,  of  the  previous  six  1 
Since  God  collected  and  resumed  in  man 
The  firmaments,  the  strata,  and  the  lights. 
Fish,  fowl,  and  beast,  and  insect — all  their  trains 
Of  various  life  cauglit  back  upon  His  arm, 
Eeorganized  and,  constituted  max. 
The  microcosm,  the  adding  up  of  works ; 
AYithin  whose  fluttering  nostrils,  then  at  last, 
Consummating  Himself,  the  Maker  sighed. 
As  some  strong  winner  at  the  foot-race  sighs 
Touching  tlie  goal. 

Humanity  is  great ; 
And,  if  I  would  not  rather  pore  upon 
An  ounce  of  common,  ugly,  human  dust, 
An  artisan's  palm,  or  a  peasant's  brow, 
Unsraooth,  ignoble,  save  to  me  and  God, 
Than  track  old  Nilus  to  his  silver  roots. 
And  wait  on  all  the  changes  of  the  moon 
Among  the  mountain-peaks  of  Thessaly, 
(Until  her  magic  crystal  round  itself 
For  manj'  a  witch  to  see  in) — set  it  down 
As  weakness — strength  by  no  means.     Hoav  is  this 
That  men  of  science,  osteologists 
And  surgeons,  beat  some  poets,  in  respect 
For  nature— count  nought  common  or  unclean. 
Spend  raptures  upon  perfect  specimens 
Of  indurated  veins,  distorted  joints. 
Or  beautiful  new  cases  of  curved  spine  : 
While  we,  are  shocked  at  nature's  falling  off, 
"We  dare  to  shrink  back  from  her  warts  and  blains, 
"We  will  not,  when  she  sneezes,  look  at  her. 
Not  even  to  say  "  God  bless  her?"  That's  our  wrong 
For  that,  she  will  not  trust  us  often  with 
Her  larger  sense  of  beauty  and  desire. 
But  tethers  us  to  a  lily  or  a  rose 
And  bids  us  diet  on  the  dew  inside — 
Left  ignorant  that  the  hungry  beggar-boy 
(Who  stares  unseen  against  our  absent  eyes, 


AURORA     LEIGH.  S25 

And  wonders  afe  the  gods  that  we  must  be, 
To  pass  so  careless  for  the  oranges !) 
IJears  yet  a  breastful  of  a  fellow-world 
To  this  world,  undisparaged,  undespoiled, 
And  (while  we  scorn  hi-m  for  a  flower  or  two, 
As  being,  Heaven  help  lis,  less  poetical) 
Contains,  himself,  both  flowers  and  firmaments 
And  surging  seas  and  aspectable  stars, 
And  all  that  we  w'ould  push  him  out  of  sight 
In  order  to  see  nearer.     Let  us  pray 
God's  grace  to  keep  God's  image  in  I'epute  ; 
'i'hat  so,  tlie  poet  and  })hilanthropist, 
(Even  1  and  Komney)  may  stand  side  by  side, 
iiecause  we  both  stand  face  to  face  with  men 
Contemplating  the  people  in  the  rough — 
Yet  each  so  follow  a  vocation — his 
And  mine. 

I  walked  on,  musing  with  myself 
On  life  and  art,  and  whether,  after  all, 
A  larger  metaphysics  might  not  help 
Our  physics,  a  completer  poetry 
Adjust  our  daily  life  and  vulgar  wants, 
More  full}'  than  the  special  outside  plnns, 
riialansteries,  material  institutes 
The  civil  conscriptions  and  lay  monasteries 
Preferred  by  modern  thinkers,  as  the}^  tiiought 
The  bread  of  man  indeed  made  all  his  life. 
And  wasiiing  seven  times  in  the  "  People's  Baths" 
Were  sovereign  for  a  people's  leprosy — 
Still  leaving  out  the  essential  prophet's  Avord 
That  comes  in  power.     On  which,  we  tlumder  down, 
We  prophets,  poets — Virtue's  in  the  word  ! 
The  maker  burnt  the  darkness  up  with  His, 
'i'o  inaugurate  the  use  of  vocal  life  ; 
And,  plant  a  poet's  word  even,  deep  enough 
In  any  man's  breast,  looking  presently 
For  offshoots,  you  have  done  more  for  the  man, 
'J  lian  if  you  dressed  him  in  a  broad-cloth  coat 
And  warmed  his  Sunday  potage  at  your  fire. 
Yet  lloinney  loaves  me  .  .  . 

God  !  what  face  is  that  ? 
0  P.omney,  0  Marian ! 

Walking  on  the  quays 
Ard  pulling  thoughts  to  pieces  leisurely, 
As  if  I  caught  at  grasses  in  a  field, 
And  bit  tiiem  slow  between  my  absent  lips, 


32o  AURORA     LEIGH. 

And  shied  them  with  my  hands  .  . 

What  face  is  that ; 
What  a  face,  what  a  look,  what  a  lilieiiess !     Full  on 

mine 
The  sudden  blow  of  it  came  down,  till  all 
My  blood  swam,  my  eyes  dazzled.     Then  I  sprang — 

It  was  as  if  a  meditative  man 
Were  dreaming  out  a  summer  afternoon 
And  watcliing-  gnats  a-prick  upon  a  pond, 
When  something  floats  up  suddenly-,  out  there. 
Turns  over  .  .  a  dead  face,  known  once  alive — 
So  old,  so  new  !     It  would  be  dreadful  now 
To  lose  the  sight  and  keep  the  doubt  of  tliis. 
He  plunges — ha !  he  has  lost  it  in  the  splash. 

I  plunged — I  tore  the  crowd  up,  either  side, 
And  rushed  on — forward,  forward  .  .  after  her. 
Her  ?  whom  ? 

A  woman  sauntered  slow,  in  front, 
Munching  an  apple — she  left  off  amazed 
As  if  I  had  snatched  it:  that's  not  she,  at  least. 
A  man  walked  arm-linked  with  a  lady  veiled. 
Both  heads  dropped  closer  than  the  need  of  talk  : 
They  started  ;  he  forgot  her  with  his  face. 
And  she,  herself — and  clung  to  him  as  if 
My  look  were  fatal.     Such  a  stream  of  folk. 
And  all  with  cares  and  business  of  their  own  ! 
1  ran  the  Avhole  quay  down  against  their  eyes ; 
No  Marian  ;  nowhere  Marian.     Almost,  now, 
I  could  call  Marian,  Marian,  with  the  shriek 
Of  desperate  creatures  calling  for  the  Dead. 
Where  is  she,  was  she  ?  was  she  anywhere  ? 
I  stood  still,  breathless,  gazing,  straining  out 
In  every  uncertain  distance,  till,  at  last, 
A  gentleman  abstracted  as  myself 
Came  full  against  me,  then  resolved  the  clash 
In  voluble  excuses — obviously 
Some  learned  member  of  the  Institute 
Upon  his  way  there,  walking,  for  his  health. 
While  meditating  on  the  last  "  Discourse  ;" 
Pinching  the  empty  air  'twixt  finger  and  thumb, 
From  which  the  snuff  being  ousted  by  that  shock, 
Defiled  his  snow-white  waistcoat,  duly  pricked. 
At  the  button-hole  with^onorable  red  ; 
"  Madame,  your  pardon — there,  he  swerved  from  me 


AURORA     LEIGH.  gg? 

A  metre,  as  confouiuled  as  he  had  heard 

That  Dumas  woiihl  be  chosen  to  fill  up 

The  next  chair  vacant,  by  his  "  men  in  ms," 

Since  when  was  genius  found  respectable  ? 

It  passes  in  its  place,  indeed — which  means 

The  seventh  floor  back,  or  else  the  hospital ; 

Revolving  pistols  are  ingenious  things, 

But  prudent  men  (Academicians  are) 

Scarce  keep  them  in  the  cupboard,  next  the  prunes. 

And  so,  abandoned  to  a  bitter  mirth, 
I  loitered  to  my  inn.     0  world,  0  world, 

0  jurists,  rhymers,  dreamers,  what  you  please, 
\>'e  i)lay  a  weary  game  of  hide  and  seek  \ 

We  shape  a  figure  of  our  fantasy. 

Call  nothing  something,  and  run  after  it 

And  lose  it,  lose  ourselves  too  in  the  search. 

Till  clash  against  us,  comes  a  somebody 

Who  also  has  lost  something  and  is  lost, 

Philosopher  against  philanthropist, 

Academician  against  poet,  man 

Against  woman,  against  the  living,  the  dead — 

Then  home,  with  a  bad  headache  and  worse  jest  I 

To  change  the  water  for  my  heliotropes 
And  yellow  roses.     Paris  has  such  flowers. 
But  England,  also.     'Twas  a  yellow  rose, 
V>y  that  south  window  of  the  little  house, 
My  cousin  Komney  gathered  with  his  hand 
On  all  my  birthdays  for  me,  save  the  last ; 
And  then  J  shook  the  tree  too  rough,  too  rough, 
Por  roses  to  stay  after. 

Now,  my  maps. 

1  must  not  linger  here  from  Italy 

Till  the  last  nightingale  is  tired  of  song. 
And  the  last  flre-fly  dies  off'  in  the  maize. 
My  soul's  in  haste  to  leap  into  the  sun 
And  scorch  and  seeth  itself  to  a  finer  mood, 
Wliich  here,  in  this  chill  north,  is  apt  to  stand 
Too  stitlly  in  former  moulds. 

That  face  persista 
It  floats  up,  it  turns  over  in  ni}^  mind. 
As  like  to  Marian,  as  one  dead  is  like 
The  same  alive.     In  very  deed  a  face 
And  not  a  fanc^',  though  it  vanished  so  ; 
The  small  fair  face  between  the  darks  of  hair, 


32&  AURORA      LEIOH. 

I  used  to  liken,  when  I  saw  her  first, 

To  a  point  of  moonlit  water  clown  a  well 

The  low  brow,  the  frank  space  between  the  63-69, 

Which  always  had  the  brown  pathetic  look 

Of  a  dumb  creature  who  had  been  beaten  once, 

And  never  since  was  easy  with  the  world. 

Ah,  ah — now  I  remember  perfectl^"^ 

Those  eyes  to-da}^ — how  over-large  they  seemed, 

As  if  some  patient  passionate  despair 

(Like  a  coal  dropt  and  forgot  on  tapestry, 

Which  slowly  burns  a  widening  circle  out) 

Had  buint  them  larger,  larger.     And  those  eyes, 

To-day,  I  do  remember,  saw  me  t/)0, 

As  I  saw  them,  with  conscious  lids  astrain 

In  recognition.     Now,  a  fantasy, 

A  simple  shade  or  image  of  the  brain, 

Is  merely  passive,  does  not  retro-act. 

Is  seen,  but  sees  not. 

'Twas  a  real  face. 
Perhaps  a  real  Mariarw. 

Which  being  so, 
I  ought  to  write  to  Romney,  "Marian's  here. 
Be  comforted  for  Marian." 

My  pen  fell, 
My  hands  struck  sharp  together,  as  hands  do 
Which  hold  at  nothing.     Can  I  write  to  him 
A  half  truth?  can  I  keep  my  own  soul  blind 
To  the  other  half,  .  .  the  worse  ?  What  are  our  souls, 
If  still,  to  run  on  straight  a  sober  pace 
Nor  start  at  ever}'  peb'-.le  or  dead  leaf, 
They  must  wear  blinkers,  ignore  facts,  suppress 
"Six-tenths  of  the  road  ?     Confront  the  truth,  my  soul  1 
And  oh,  as  truly  as  that  was  Marian's  face, 
The  arms  of  that  same  Marian  clasped  a  thing 
.    Not  hid  so  well  beneath  the  scanty  shawl, 
I  cannot  name  it  now  for  what  it  was. 

A  child.     Small  business  has  a  cast-away 

Like  Marian,  with  that  crown  of  prosperous  wives 

At  Avhich  the  gentlest  she  grows  arrogant 

And  says,  "my  child."     Who'll   find  an  emerald  ring 

On  a  beggar's  middle  finger,  and  require 

More  testimony  to  convict  a  thief? 

A  cliild's  too  costly  for  so  mere  a  wretch; 

She  filched  it  somewhere  ;  and  it  means,  with  her, 

Instead  of  honor,  blessing,  .  .  merely  shame. 


AURORA     LEIGH.  S2\i 

[  cannot  write  to  Rorane}',   "  Here  she  is, 
Here's  Marian  found  !  I'll  set  you  on  her  track* 
I  saw  her  here,  in  Paris,  .  .  and  her  child. 
She  put  awa}^  3'our  love  two  years  ago, 
But,  plainly,  not  to  starve.     You  suffered  then  ; 
And,  now  that  3'ou've  forgot  her  utterly 
As  an}'^  lost  year's  annual  in  whose  place 
You've  planted  a  thick  tlowering  evergreen, 
I  choose,  being  kind,  to  write  and  tell  you  this 
To  make  you  vvh(;lly  easy — she's  not  dead, 
But  only  .  .  damned." 

Stop  there  :  I  go  too  fast ; 
I'm  cruel  like  the  rest — in  haste  to  take 
The  first  stir  in  the  arras  for  a  rat, 
And  set  my  barking,  biting  thoughts  upon't. 
— A  child  !  what  then  ?     Suppose  a  neighbor's  sick 
And  asked  her,  "  Marian,  carry  out  my  child 
In  this  spring  air" — I  punish  her  for  that? 
Or  say,  the  child  should  hold  her  round  the  neck 
For  good  child-reasons,  that  he  liked  it  so 
And  would  not  leave  her — she  had  winning  waj's — 
I  brand  her  therefore,  that  she  took  the  child  ? 
Not  so. 

I  will  not  write  to  Roraney  Leigh. 
For  now  he's  happy — and  she  may  indeed 
Be  guilt}' — and  the  knowledge  of  her  fault 
Would  draggle  his  smooth  time.     But  I,  whose  days 
Are  not  so  fine  the}'  cannot  bear  the  rain, 
And  who,  moreover,  having  seen  her  face. 
Must  see  it  again,  .  .  will  see  it,  by  my  hopes 
Of  one  day  seeing  hedven  too.     The  police 
Shall  track  her,  hound  her,  ferret  their  own  soil  ; 
We'll  dig  this  Paris  to  its  catacombs 
But  certainly  we'll  find  her,  have  her  out, 
And  save  her,  if  she  will  or  will  not — child 
Or  no  child — if  a  child,  then  one  to  save; 

The  long  weeks  passed  on  without  consequence. 

As  easy  find  a  footstep  on  the  sand 

The  morning  after  spring-tide,  as  the  trace 

Of  Marian's  feet  between  the  incessant  surfs 

Of  this  live  flood.     She  may  have  moved  this  way — 

But  so  the  star-fish  does,  and  crosses  out 

The  dent  of  her  small  shoe.     The  foiled  police 

Benounced  me  ;  "  Could  they  find  a  girl  and  child, 

yo  ot^ier  signalment  but  girl  and  child  ' 


830  AURORA     LEIGH. 

N       lie  iiit  An,  but  noticeable  eyes 
Aii  .  hair  in  masses,  low  upon  the  brow, 
As  if  it  were  an  iron  crown  and  pressed  ? 
Friends  heighten,  and  suppose  the3'  specifj' : 
Why,  oivls  with  hair  and  eyes  are  everywhere 
In  Paris;  they  had  turned  me  up  in  vain 
No  ]Marian  f]rle  indeed,  but  certainly 
Matliildes,  Justines,  Victories,  .  .  or,  if  I  sought 
The  English  Betsis,  Saras,  by  the  score. 
They  might  as  well  go  out  into  the  fields 
To  find  a  speckled  bean,  that's  somehow  specked, 
And  somewhere  in  the  pod." — They  left  me  so. 
Shall  /leave  Marian?  have  I  dreamed  a  dream? 

I  thank  God  I  have  found  her  !     I  must  sa}-- 

"  Thank  God,"  for  finding  her,  although  'tis  true 
I  find  the  world  more  sad  and  wicked  for't. 
But  she — 

I'll  write  about  her,  presently  ; 
My  hand's  a-trenil)le  as  I  had  just  caught  up 
M}^  heart  to  write  with,  in  the  place  of  it. 
At  least  you'd  take  these  letters  to  be  writ 
At  sea,  in  storm  ! — wait  now  .  . 

A  simple  chance 
Did  all.     I  could  not  sleep  last  night,  and  tired 
Of  turning  on  my  pillow  and  harder  thoughts, 
Went  out  at  early  morning,  when  the  air 
Is  dclicat"  with  some  last  starry  touch. 
To  wander  through  tlie  Market-place  of  Flowers 
(The  prettiest  haunt  in  Paris),  and  make  sure 
At  worst,  that  there  were  roses  in  the  world, 
So  wandering,  musing  with  the  artist's  eye. 
That  keeps  the  shade-side  of  the  thing  it  loves, 
Half-absent,  whole-observing,  while  the  crowd 
Of  3'oung  vivacious  and  black-braided  heads 
Dipped,  quick  as  finches  in  a  blossomed  tree. 
Among  the  nosegays,  cheapening  this  and  that 
In  such  a  cheerful  twitter  of  rapid  speech — 
Mv  heart  leapt  in  me,  startled  by  a  voice 
That  slowly,  faintly,  with  long  breaths  that  marked 
The  interval  between  the  wish  and  word, 
Inquired  in  stranger's  French,  "  Would  that  be  much, 
That    branch  of    flowering    mountain-gorse  ?  " — "  Sc 

much  ? 
Too  much  for  me,  then  !  "  turning  the  face  round 
So  close  upon  me,  that  I  felt  the  sigh 
It  turned  with. 


"She  leaned  ahove  him  (drinkiiii;  him  as  wine) 
In  that  extremity  of  love,  'twill  pass 
For  agony  or  rapture." 


^ 


AURORA     LEIGH.  531 

"  Marian,  Marian  !  " — face  to  face — 
"  ^farian  I  I  find  you.     Shall  I  let  you  go  ?  " 
1  held  her  two  slight  wrists  with  both  my  hands; 
"  Ah  Marian,  Marian,  can  l-let  you  go  ?  " 
— She  fluttered  from  me  like  a  cyelamen. 
As  white,  which,  taken  in  a  sudden  wind 
Beats  on  against  the  palisade. — "  Let  pass," 
She  said  at  last.     "  1  will  not,"  I  replied  ; 
''  I  lost  my  sister  Marian  many  days, 
And  sought  her  ever  in  my  walks  and  prayei's, 
And,  now  I  find  her  .  .  .  do  we  throw  away 
The  bread  we  worked  and  prayed  for — crumble  it 
And  drop  it,  .  .  to  do  even  so  by  thee 
Whom  still  I've  hungered  after  more  than  bread. 
My  sister  Marian  ? — can  I  hurt  thee,  dear  ? 
Then  why  distrust  me?     Never  tremble  so. 
Come  with  me  rather,   where  we'll  talk  and  live. 
And  none  shall  vex  us.     I've  a  home  for  you 
And  me  and  no  one  else  "... 

She  shook  her  head 
"  A  home  for  you  and  me  and  no  one  else 
Ill-suits  one  of  us:  I  prefer  to  such, 
A  roof  of  grass  on  which  a  flower  might  spring. 
Less  costly  to  me  than  the  cheapest  here ; 
And  yet  I  could  not,  at  this  hour,  afford 
A  like  home,  even.     That  you  offer  yours, 
I  thank  you.     You  are  good  as  heaven  itself — 
As  good  as  one  I  knew  before  .  .  Farewell." 
I  loosed  her  hands.     "  In  his  name,  no  farewell !'' 
(She  stood  as  if  I  held  her,)  "for  his  sake. 
For  his  sake,  Romney's !  by  the  good  he  meant, 
A}^  alwaj's !  by  the  love  he  pressed  for  once — 
And  by  the  grief,  reproach,  abandonment, 
He  took  in  change"  .  . 

"  He,  Romney !  who  grieved  him  f 
Who  had  the  heart  for't  ?  what  reproach  touched  him  ? 
Be  merciful — speak  quickly." 

"  Thei'efore  come." 
I  answered  with  authority — "  I  think 
We  dare  to  speak  such  things  and  name  such  names, 
In  the  open  squares  of  Paris  !" 

Not  a  word 
She  said,  but,  in  a  gentle  humbled  way, 
(As  one  who  had  forgot  herself  in  grief) 
Turned  round  and  followed  closely  where  I  went, 
As  if  I  led  her  by  a  narrow  plank 


302  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Across  devouring  waters,  step  bj'  step — . 
And  so  in  silence  we  walked  on  a  mile. 

And  then  she  stopped :  her  face  was  white  as  wax. 
"  We  go  much  further  ?" 

"  You  are  ill,"  I  asked, 
"  Or  tired  ?" 

She  looked  the  whiter  for  her  smile. 
"  There's  one  at  home,"  she  said,  "  has  need  of  me 
By  this  time — and  I  must  not  let  him  wait." 

"Not  even,"  I  asked,  "to  hear  of  Romnej'  Leigh?" 
"  Not  even,"  she  said,  "to  hear  of  Mister  Leigh." 

"  In  that  case,"  I  resumed,  "  I  go  with  you, 
And  we  can  talk  the  snrae  thing  there  as  here. 
None  waits  for  me :  I  have  my  day  to  spend." 

Her  lips  moved  in  a  spasm  without  a  sound — 
But  then  she  spoke.     "  It  shall  be  as  you  please ; 
And  better  so — 'tis  shorter  seen  than  told. 
And  though  3'ou  will  not  find  me  worth  your  pains, 
That  even,  may  be  worth  some  pains  to  know, 
For  one  as  good  as  you  are." 

Then  she  led 
The  way,  and  I,  as  by  a  narrow  plank 
Across  devouring  waters,  followed  her, 
Stepping  by  her  footsteps,  breathing  by  her  breath. 
And  holding  her  with  eyes  that  would  not  slip; 
And  so,  without  a  word,  we  walked  a  mile, 
And  so,  another  mile,  without  a  word. 

Until  the  peopled  streets  being  all  dismissed, 
House-rows  and  groups  all  scattered  like  a  flock, 
The  market-gardens  thickened,  and  the  long 
White  walls  beyond,  like  spiders'  outside  threads, 
Stretched,  feeling  blindly  toward  the  country-fields 
Through  half-built  habitations  and  half-dug 
Foundations— intervals  of  trenchant  chalk. 
That  bite  betwixt  the  grassy  uneven  turfs 
Where  goats  (vine  tendrils  trailing  from  their  mouthsj 
Stood  perched  on  edges  of  the  cellerage 
Which  should  be,  staring  as  about  to  leap 
To  find  their  coming  Bacchus.     All  the  place 
Seemed  less  a  cultivation  than  a  waste : 
Men  work  here,  only — scarce  begin  to  live : 


AURORA     LEIGH.  ggg 

All's  sad,  the  country  struggling  with  the  toVn, 

Like  an  untamed  hawlc  upon  a  strong  man's  fist, 

'i'hat  heats  its  wings  and  tries  to  get  away, 

And  cannot  choose  be  satisfied  so  soon 

To  hop  tlirough  court-yards  with  its  right  foot  tied, 

HMie  vintage  plains  and  pastoral  hills  in  sight  I 

We  stopped  beside  a  house  too  high  and  slim 

To  stand  there  bj'  itself,  but  waiting  till 

Five  others,  two  on  this  side,  three  on  that, 

Should  grow  up  from  the  sullen  second  floor 

They  pause  at  now,  to  build  it  to  a  row. 

The  upper  windows  partly  were  unglazed 

Meantime— a  meagre,  unripe  house:  a  line 

Of  rigid  poplars  elbowed  it  behind, 

And  just  in  front,  beyond  the  lime  and  bricks 

That  wronged  the  grass  between  it  and  the  road, 

A  great  acacia,  Avith  its  slender  trunk 

And  overpoise  of  multitudinous  leaves, 

(In  which  a  hundred  fields  might  spill  their  dew 

And  intense  verdure,  yet  find  "room  enough) 

Stood  reconciling  all  the  place  with  green. 

I  followed  up  the  stair  upon  her  step. 

She  hurried  upward,  shot  across  a  face, 

A  womairs  on  the  landing — "How  now,  now  1 

Is  no  one  to  have  holidays  but  you  ? 

You  said  an  hour,  and  stay  three  hours,  I  think, 

And  Julie  waiting  for  your  betters  here  ? 

Why  if  lie  had  waked,  he  miirht  have  waked,  for  me.'' 

— Just  murmuring  an  excusing  word  she  passed 

And  shut  the  rest  out  with  the  chamber-door, 

Myself  shut  in  beside  her. 

'Twas  a  room 
Scarce  larger  than  a  grave,  and  near  as  bare; 
Two  stools,  a  pallet-bed  ;  I  saw  the  room  ; 
A  mouse  could  find  no  sort  of  shelter  in't. 
Much  less  a  greater  secret;  curtainless — 
The  window  fixed  you  with  its  torturing  eye, 
Defying  you  to  take  a  step  apart, 
If  peradventure  you  would  hide  a  thing. 
I  saw  the  whole  room,  I  and  Marian  there 
Alone. 

Alone  ?     She  threw  her  bonnet  off. 
Then  sighing  as  'twere  sighing  the  last  time, 
Appi'oached  the  bed,  and  drew  a  shawl  away: 


334  AURORA     LEIGH 

Yon  coiTld  not  peel  a  fruit  you  fear  to  bruise 
More  calmly  and  more  carefully  than  so — 
Nor  would  you  find  within,  a  rosier  flushed 
Pomegranate — 

There  he  lay,  upon  his  back, 
The  yearlinp:  creature,  warm  and  moist  with  life 
To  the  bottom  of  his  dimples — to  tiie  ends 
Of  the  lovel3'  tumbled  curls  about  his  face; 
For  since  he  had  been  covered  over-mucli 
To  keep  him  from  the  light  glare,  both  his  cheeks 
Were  hot  and  scarlet  as  the  first  live  rose 
The  shepherd's  heart-blood  ebbed  away  into, 
The  faster  for  his  love.     And  love  was  here 
As  instant!  in  the  pretty  baby-mouth, 
Shut  close  as  if  for  dreaming  that  it  sucked  ; 
The  little  naked  feet  drawn  up  the  wa}' 
Of  nestled. birdlings  ;  everything  so  soft 
And  tender — to  the  little  holdfast  hands. 
Which,  closing  on  a  finger  into  sleep, 
Had  kept  the  mould  oft. 

"  "Willie  "Wfrstdbd  there  dumb— 
For  oh,  that  it  should  take  such  innocence 
To  prove  just  guilt,  I  thought,  and  stood  there  dumb  r 
The  light  upon  his  eyelids  pricked  them  wide, 
And,  staring  out  at  us  with  all  their  blue, 
As  half  perplexed  between  the  angelhood 
He  had  been  a\va3'  to  visit  in  his  sleep. 
And  our  most  mortal  presence — gradually 
He  savv  his  mother's  face,  accepting  it 
In  change  for  heaven  itself,  with  such  a  smile 
As  might  have  well  been  learnt  there — never  moved, 
But  smiled  on,  in  a  drowse  of  ecstasy, 
So  happy  (half  with  her  and  half  with  heaven) 
He  could  not  have  the  trouble  to  be  stirred. 
But  smiled  and  \ny  there.     Like  a  rose,  I  said : 
As  red  and  still  indeed  as  any  rose, 
That  blows  in  all  the  silence  of  its  leaves, 
Content,  in  blowing,  to  fulfil  its  life. 

She  leaned  above  him  (drinking  him  as  wine) 
In  that  extremit}'  of  love,  'twill  pass 
For  agony  or  rapture,  seeing  that  love 
Includes  the  whole  of  nature,  rounding  it 
To  love  .  .  no  more — since  more  can  never  be 
Than  just  love.     Self-forgot,  cast  out  of  self, 
And  drowning  in  the  transport  of  the  sight, 


AURORA     LEIGH.  3:?3 

Her  whole  pale  passionate  face,  mouth, forehead,  eyes, 

One  gaze,  she  stood  !  then,  slowly  as  he  smiled, 

She  smiled  too,  slowl}-,  smiling  unaware, 

And  drawing  from  his  countenance  to  hers 

A  fainter  red,  as  if  she  watched  a  flame 

And  stood  in  it  a-glow.     '•  llow  beautiful," 

Said  she. 

I  answered,  trj-ing  to  be  cold, 
(^lust  sin  have  compensations,  was  my  thouoht, 
As  if  it  were  a  holy  thing  like  grief? 
And  is  a  woman  to  be  fooled  aside 
From  putting  vice  down,  with  that  woman's  toy, 

A  baby?) "Ay!  the  child  is  well  enough," 

I  answered.     "  If  his  mother's  palms  are  clean, 
They  need  be  glad,  of  course,  in  clasping  such: 
But  if  not — I  would  rather  laj'  my  hand, 
Were  I  she — on  God's  brazen  altar-bars 
Red-hot  with  burning  sacrificial  lambs. 
Than  touch  the  sacred  curls  of  such  a  child." 

She  plunged  her  fingers  in  his  clustering  locks, 

As  one  who  would  not  be  afraid  of  fire  ; 

And  then,  with  indrawn  steady  utterance,  said — • 

"  My  lamb,  my  lamb  !  although,  through  such  as  thou, 

The  most  unclean  got  courage  and  approach 

To  Goa,  once — now  the.y  cannot,  even  with  men, 

Find  grace  enough  for  pity  and  gentle  words." 

"  My  Marian,"  1  made  answer,  grave  and  sad, 

"  The  priest  who  stole  a  lamb  to  offer  him, 

Was  still  a  thief.     And  if  a  woman  steals 

(Through  God's  own  barrier-hedges  of  true  love. 

Which  fence  out  license  in  securing  love) 

A  child  like  this,  that  smiles  so  in  her  face. 

She  is  no  mother,  but  a  kidnapper, 

And  he's  a  dismal  orphan  .  .  not  a  son  ; 

Whom  all  her  kisses  cannot  feed  so  full 

He  will  not  miss  hereafter  a  pure  home 

To  live  in,  a  pure  heart  to  lean  against, 

A  pure  good  mother's  name  and  memory 

To  uope  by  when  the  world  grows  thick  and  bad. 

And  he  feels  out  for  virtue." 

"  Oh,"  she  smiled 
With  bitter  patience,  "  the  child  takes  his  chance- 
Not  much  worse  off  in  being  fatherless 
Than  I  was,  fathered,     Ue  will  say,  belike, 


336  AURORA     LEIGH. 

His  mother  was  the  saddest  creature  born; 

He'll  say  his  mother  lived  so  contrary 

To  joy,  that  even  the  kindest,  seeing  her. 

Grew  sometimes  almost  cruel ;  he'll  not  say 

She  flew  contrarious  in  the  face  of  God 

With  bat-wings  of  her  vices.     Stole  my  child — 

My  flower  of  earth,  ray  only  flower  on  earth, 

My  sweet,  my  beautj^ !"  .  .  Up  she  snatched  the  child, 

And,  breaking  on  him  in  a  storm  of  tears, 

Drew  out  her  long  sobs  from  their  shivering  roots, 

Until  he  took  it  for  a  game,  and  stretched 

His  feet,  and  flapped  his  eager  arms  like  wings, 

And  crowed  and  gurgled  through  his  infant  laugh: 

"  Mine,  mine,"  she  said  ;  "  I  have  as  sure  a  right 

As  any  glad  proud  mother  in  the  world. 

Who  sets  her  darling  clown  to  cut  his  teeth 

Upon  her  church-ring.     If  she  talks  of  law, 

I  talk  of  law  !     I  claim  my  mother-dues 

By  law — the  law  which  now  is  paramount ; 

The  common  law,  by  which  the  poor  and  weak 

Are  trodden  underfoot  by  vicious  men. 

And  loathed  forever  after  by  the  good. 

Let  pass  !     I  did  not  filch  .  .  1  found  the  cliild  " 

"You  found  him,  Marian  ?" 

"  A3-,  I  found  him  where 
I  found  my  curse — in  the  gutter  with  my  shame ! 
What  have  you,  any  of  you,  to  say  to  that, 
Who  all  are  happy,  and  sit  safe  and  high, 
And  never  spoke  before  to  arraign  my  right 
To  grief  itself?     What,  what  .  .  being  beaten  down 
By  hoofs  of  maddened  oxen  into  a  ditch. 
Half  dead,  whole  mangled  .  .  when  a  girl,  at  last, 
Breathes,  sees  .  .  and  finds  there,  bedded  in  her  flesh, 
Because  of  the  overcoming  shock  perhaps, 
Some  coin  of  price  !  ,  .  and  when  a  good  man  comes 
(That's  God  !  the  best  men  are  not  quite  as  good) 
And  says,   '  I  dropped  the  coin  there ;  take  it,  3-ou, 
And  keep  it — it  shall  pa}'  you  for  the  loss,'  — 
You  all  put  up  your  finger —  '  See  the  thief! 
Observe  that  precious  thing  she  has  come  to  filch  ! 
]Iow  bad  those  girls  are  !'      Oh,  my  flower,  my  pet, 
1  dare  forget  I  have  you  in  my  arms, 
And  fly  oft"  to  V>e  angi-y  with  the  world. 
And  fright  you,  hurt  you  with  my  tempers,  till 
You  double  up  your  lip  ?     Ah,  that  indeed 


AURORA     LEIGH.  337 

Is  bad  :  a  naughty  mother!" 

"  You  n  istake,*' 
I  interrupted,  "  If  I  loved  3'ou  not, 
I  should  not,  Marian,  certainly  be  here." 

"  Alas,"  she  said,  "  3'ou  are  so  very  good; 

And  yet  I  wish,  indeed,  3'ou  had  never  come 

I'o  make  me  sob  until  1  vex  the  child. 

It  is  not  wholesome  for  these  pleasure-plats 

To  be  so  earlj^  w^atered  by  our  brine. 

And  then,  who  knows  ?  he  may  not  like  me  no\r 

As  well,  perhaps,  as  ere  he  saw  me  fret — 

One's  ugly  fretting  !  lie  has  eyes  the  same 

As  angels,  but  he  cannot  see  as  deep, 

And  so  I've  kept  forever  in  his  sight 

A  sort  of  smile  to  please  him,  as  you  place 

A  green  thing  from  the  garden  in  a  cup, 

To  make  believe  it  grows  there.     Look,  my  sweet. 

My  cowslip-ball !  we've  done  with  that  cross  face, 

And  here's  the  face  come  back  you  used  to  like. 

Ah,  ah  !  he  laughs  1  he  likes  me.     Ah,  Miss  Leigh. 

You're  great  and  pui'e  ;  but  were  you  purer  still — 

As  if  you  had  walked,  we'll  say,  no  otherwhere 

Than  up  and  down  the  new  Jerusalem, 

And  held  your  trailing  lutestring  up  3'ourRelf 

From  brushing  the  twelve  stones,  for  fear  of  some 

Small  speck  as  little  as  a  needle  prick. 

White  stitched  on  white — the  child  would  keep  to  inn, 

Would  choose  his  poor  lost  Marian,  like  me  best, 

And,  though  3'ou    stretclud  your  arms,  cry  back  and 

cling, 
As  we  do,  when  God  sa3-s  it's  time  to  die 
And  bids  us  go  up  higher.     Leave  us  then  ; 
We  two  are  happy.     Does  he  p.ush  me  ofi'? 
lie's  satisfied  with  me,  as  1  with  him." 

"  So  soft  to  one,  so  hard  to  others  !  Nay," 

I  cried,  more  angry  that  she  melted  me, 

"  We  make  henceforth  a  cushion  of  our  faults 

'I'o  sit  and  practise  easy  virtues  on? 

I  thought  a  child  was  given  to  sanctify 

A  woman — set  her  in  the  sight  of  all 

The  clear  c3-ed  heavens,  a  chosen  minister 

To  do  their  business  and  lead  spirits  up 

The  difficult  blue  heights.     A  woman  lives. 

Not  bettered,  quickened  toward  the  truth  and  good 


338  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Through   being  a   mother  ?  .  .    .    then    she's    none 

although 
She  damps  her  baby's  cheeks  by  kissing  them, 
As  we  kill  roses." 

"Kill!  0  Christ,"  she  said, 
And  turned  her  wild  sad  face  from  side  to  side 
With  most  despairing  wonder  in  it — "  What, 
What  have  j'ou  in  your  souls  against  me  then. 
All  of  you?  am  I  wicked,  do  3'ou  think? 
God  knows  me,  trusts  me  with  a  child  !  but  you, 
You  think  me  really-  wicked  ?  " 

"  Complaisant " 
I  answered  softl3%  "  to  a  wrong  you've  done. 
Because  of  certain  profits — which  is  wrong 
Beyond  the  first  wrong,  ^Marian.     When  you  left 
The  pure  place  and  the  noble  heart,  to  take 
The  hand  of  a  seducer  "  .  . 

"  Whom  ?  whose  hand  ? 
I  took  the  hand  of "  .  . 

Si)ringing  up  erect, 
And  lifting  up  the  child  at  full  arm's  length, 
As  if  to  bear  him  like  an  oriflararae 
Unconquerable  to  armies  of  reproach — 
"  By  him,"  she  said,  "  mj'  chihl's  head  and  its  curls. 
By  those  blue  e^'es  no  woman  boru  could  dare 
A  perjur}'  on,  I  make  my  mother's  oath, 
That  if  I  left  that  Heart,  to  lighten  it, 
Tlie  blood  of  mine  was  still,  excei)t  for  grief! 
No  cleaner  maid  than  I  was,  took  a  step 
To  a  sadder  cup — no  matron^mother  now 
Looks  backward  to  her  early  maidenhood 
Through  chaster  pulses.     I  speak  steadily  : 
And  if  I  lie  so,  .  .  if,  being  fouled  in  will 
And  paltered  with  in  soul  by  devil's  lust, 
I  dared  to  bid  this  angel  take  my  part,  .  . 
Would  God  sit  quiet,  let  us  tliink,  in  heaven. 
Nor  strike  me  dumb  with  thunder?     Yet  I  speak. 
Ue  clears    me    therefore.     What,    '  seduced  '  's  3'out 

word  ? 
])()  wolves  seduce  a  wandering  fawn  in  France? 
Do  eagles,  wlio  have  pinched  a  lamb  with  claws, 
Seduce  it  into  carrion  ?     So  with  me. 
I  was  not  ever,  as  you  saj^,  seduced. 
But  simpl}',  murdered." 

There  she  paused,  and  sighed, 
With  such  a  sigh  as  drops  from  agony 


AURORA     LEIOn,  339 

To  exhaustion — sighing  while  she  lot  the  babe 

Slide  down  upon  her  l)<)Soni  IVom  her  arras, 

And  all  her  face's  light  fell  after  him, 

Like  a  torch  quenched  in  falling.     Down  she  sank, 

And  sat  upon  the  bedside  with  the  child. 

But  I,  convicted,  broken  utterly, 

With  woman's  passion  clung  about  her  waist. 

And  kissed  her  hair  and  eyes — "I  have  been  wrons, 

Sweet  Marian  "  .  ,  (weeping  in  a  tender  rage) 

"Sweet  holy  Marian!  And  now,  Marian,  now, 

I'll  use  your  oath  although  ni}'  lips  are  hard, 

And  by  the  child,  my  Marian,  by  the  child, 

I'll  swear  his  mother  shall  be  innocent 

Before  my  conscience,  as  in  the  open  Book 

Of  Him  who  reads  for  judgment.     Innocent, 

My  sister  !  let  the  night  be  ne'er  so  dark, 

The  moon  is  surel3'  somewhere  in  the  sky  : 

So  surely  is  3'our  whiteness  to  be  found 

Through  all  dark  facts.     But  pardon,  pardon  me, 

And  smile  a  little,  Marian — for  the  child, 

If  not  for  me,  my  sister." 

The  poor  lip 
Just  motioned  for  the  smile  and  let  it  go. 
And  then,  with  scarce  a  stirring  of  the  mouth, 
As  if  a  statue  spoke  that  could  not  breathe, 
But  spoke  on  calm  between  its  marble  lips — 
"  I'm  glad,  I'm  very  glad  you  clear  me  so. 
I  should  be  sorry  that  you  set  me  down 
AVith  harlots,  or  with  even  a  better  name 
Which  misbecomes  his  mother.     For  the  rest 
I  am  not  on  a  level  with  your  love. 
Nor  ever  was,  you  know — but  now  am  worse, 
Because  that  world  of  3'ours  has  dealt  with  me 
As  when  the  hard  sea  bites  and  chews  a  stone 
And  changes  the  first  form  of  it.     I've  marked 
A  shore  of  pebbles  bitten  to  one  shape 
From  all  the  various  life  of  madrepores  ; 
And  so,  that  little  stone,  called  Marian  Erie, 
Picked  up  and  dropped  by  you  and  another  friend, 
Was  ground  and  tortured  by  the  incessant  sea 
And  bruised   from   what  she   was — changed  !  death's 

a  change. 
And  she,  I  said,  was  murdered;  Marian's  dead. 
What  can  you  do  with  people  when  the}'  are  dead, 
But,  if  3'ou  are  pious,  sing  a  hymn  and  go, 
Or,  if  you  are  tender,  heave  a  sigh  and  go. 


S40  AURORA     LEIGH. 

But  go  b}'  all  means — and  permit  the  grass 

To  keep  its  green  feud  up  'twixt  them  and  3-0U  ? 

Then  leave  me — let  me  rest.     I'm  dead,  I  say. 

And  if,  to  save  the  child  from  death  as  well, 

The  mother  in  me  has  survived  the  rest. 

Why,  that's  God's  miracle  3'ou  must  not  tax— 

I'm'not  less  dead  for  that:  I'm  nothing  more 

i3ut  just  a  mother.     Only  for  the  child, 

I'm  warm,  and  cold,  and  hungry,  and  afraid, 

And  smell  the  flowers  a  little,  and  see  the  sun, 

And  speak  still,  and  am  silent — just  for  him  1 

I  pray  3'ou  therefore  to  mistake  me  not, 

And  treat  me,  haply,  as  I  were  alive  ; 

For  though  you  ran  a  pin  into  my  soul, 

I  think  it  would  not  hurt  nor  trouble  me. 

Here's  proof,  dear  lady — in  the  market-place. 

But  now,  you  promised  me  to  say  a  word 

About  .  .  a  friend,  who  once,  long  years  ago, 

Took   God's   place  toward  me,  when    lie   draws   and 

loves 
And  does  not  thunder,  .  .  whom  at  last  I  left. 
As  all  of  us  leave  God.     You  thought  perhaps, 
I  seemed  to  care  for  hearing  of  that  friend  ? 
Now,  judge  me  !  we  have  sat  here  for  half  an  hour 
And  talked  together  of  the  child  and  me, 
And  I  not  asked  as  much  as,  '  What's  the  thing 
You  had  to  tell  me  of  the  friend  ,  .  the  friend  ?' 
He's  sad,  I  think  you  said — he's  sick  perhaps  ? 
It's  nought  to  Marian  if  he's  sad  or  sick. 
Another  would  have  crawled  beside  your  foot 
And  praj-ed  your  words  out.     Wh}',  a  beast,  a  dog, 
A  starved  cat,  if  he  had  fed  it  once  with  milk, 
Would  show  less  hardness.     But  I'm  dead,  you  see. 
And  that  explains  it." 

Poor,  poor  thing,  she  spoke 
And  shook  her  head,  as  white  and  calm  as  frost. 
Or  days  too  cold  for  raining  any  more, 
But  still  with  such  a  face,  so  much  alive, 
I  could  not  choose  but  take  it  on  m^^'  arm 
And  stroke  the  placid  patience  of  its  cheeks — 
Then  told  my  story  out,  of  Komney  Leigh, 
How,  having  lost  her,  sought  her,  missed  her  still, 
He,  broken-hearted  for  himself  and  her. 
Had  drawn  the  curtains  of  the  world  awhile 
As  if  he  had  done  with  morning.     There  I  stopped, 
For  when  she  gasped,  and  pressed  me  with  her  eyes, 


AURORA      LEIGH.  341 

"And  now  .  .  how  is  it  with  mm?  tell  me  now'- — . 

I  felt  the  shame  of  compensated  gi'ief, 

Aud  chose  my  words  with  scruple — slowl}'  stepped 

Upon  the  slippery  stones  set  here  and  there 

Across  the  sliding  water.     "  Certainly, 

As  evening  empties  morning  into  night, 

Another  morning  takes  the  evening  up 

With  healthful,  providential  interchange; 

And   though  he  thought  still  of  her" — 

"  Yes,  she  knew, 
She  understood:  she  had  supposed,  indeed, 
That,  as  one  stops  a  hole  upon  a  flute, 
At  which  a  new  note  comes  and  shapes  the  tune, 
Excluding  her  would  bring  a  worthier  iu, 
And,  long  ere  this,  that  Lady  Waldemar 
He  loved  so"  .  , 

"  Loved,"  I  started — "  loved  her  so  1 
Xow  tell  me  "  .  . 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  she  replied  : 
•'  But  since  we're  taking  oaths,  you'll  promise  first 
That  he,  in  England,  he  shall  never  learn 
In  what  a  dreadful  trap  his  creature  here, 
Round  whose  unworthy  neck  he  had  meant  to  tie 
The  honoral)le  ribbon  of  his  name. 
Fell  unaware,  and  came  to  butchery : 
Because — I  know  him — as  he  takes  to  heart 
'fhe  grief  of  ever^^  stranger,  he's  not  like 
To  banish  mine  as  far  as  I  should  choose 
In  wishing  him  most  happy.     Now  he  leaves 
To  think  of  me,  perverse,  who  went  my  way, 
Unkind,  and  left  him — but  if  once  he  knew  .  . 
Ah,  then,  the  sharp  nail  of  my  cruel  wrong 
Would  fasten  me  forever  in  his  sight, 
Like    some    poor  curious   bird,   through  each  spread 

wing 
Xailed  high  up  over  a  fierce  hunter's  fire. 
To  spoil  the  dinner  of  all  tenderer  folk 
Come  in  by  chance.     Nay,  since  your  Marian's  dead. 
You  shall  not  hang  her  up,  but  dig  a  hole 
And  bury  her  in  silence  !  ring  no  bells." 

I  answered  gaily,  though  m}'  whole  voice  wopt ; 
"  \Ve'll  ring  the  joy -bells,  not  the  funeral-bells, 
Because  we  have  her  back,  dead  or  alive." 

She  never  answered  that,  but  shook  her  head  ; 
Then  low  and  calm,  as  one  who,  safe  in  heaven, 


342  AURORA     LEian. 

Shall  tell  II  story  of  his  lower  life, 

Unmoved  by  shame  or  anger — so  she  spoke. 

She  told  me  she  had  loved  upon  her  knees, 

And  others  pray,  more  perfectly  absorbed 

In  the  act  and  aspiration.     She  felt  his, 

For  just  his  uses,  not  her  own  at  all, 

His  stool,  to  sit  on,  or  put  up  his  foot, 

His  cup,  to  fill  with  wine  or  vinegar, 

Whichever  drink  might  please  him  at  the  chance, 

For  that  should  please  her  always :  let  him  write 

His  name  upon  her  .  .  it  seemed  natural ; 

It  was  most  precious,  standing  on  his  shelf. 

To  wait  until  he  chose  to  lift  his  hand. 

Well,  well — I  saw  her  then,  and  must  have  seen 

How  bright  her  life  went,  floating  on  her  love. 

Like  wicks  the  housewives  send  afloat  on  oil. 

Which  feeds  them  to  a  flame  that  lasts  the  night. 

To  do  good  seemed  so  much  his  business, 

That,  having  done  it,  she  was  fain  to  think. 

Must  fill  up  his  capacitj'  for  joy. 

At  first  she  never  mooted  with  herself 

If  he  was  hai)py,  since  he  made  her  so, 

Or  if  he  loved  her,  being  so  much  beloved  • 

Who  thinks  of  asking  if  the  sun  is  light. 

Observing  that  it  lightens?   who's  so  bold. 

To  question  God  of  his  felicity  ? 

Still  less.     And  thus  she  took  for  granted  first. 

What  first  of  all  she  should  have  put  to  proof. 

And  sinned  against  him  so,  but  only  so. 

"  What  could  you  hope,"  she  said,  •'  of  such  as  she  ? 

You  take  a  kid  you  like,  and  turn  it  out 

In  some  fair  garden  ;  though  the  creature's  fond 

And  gentle,  it  Avill  leap  upon  the  beds 

And  break  your  tulips,  bite  your  tender  trees  • 

The  wonder  would  be  if  such  innocence 

Spoiled  less.     A  garden  is  no  place  for  kids.'' 

And,  by  de,<i:rees,  when  he  who  had  chosen  her, 

Brought  in  his  courteous  and  benignant  friends 

To  spend  their  goodness  on  her,  which  she  took 

So  ver3'  gladly,  as  a  part  of  his — 

By  slow  degrees,  it  broke  on  her  slow  sense, 

That  she,  too,  in  that  Eden  of  delight 

Was  cut  of  place,  and  like  the  silh^  kid. 

Still  did  most  mischief  where  she  meant  most  lova 


AURORA      JjKIQII.  343 

A  thought  eiKHigli  to  make  a  wonina  mad, 
(\o  beast  in  this,  but  she  may  well  go  mad"! 
That,  saj-ing  "  I  am  thine  to  love  and  use  ; 
Ma}'  blow  the  plague,  in  her  protesting  breath 
To  the  very  man  for  whom  she  claims  to  die — 
That,  clinging  round  his  neck,  she  pulls  hiin  down 
And  drowns  him — and  that,  lavishing  her  soul 
She  hales  perdition  on  him.     "So,  being  mad," 
Said  Marian  .  . 

"  Ah — who  stirred  such  thoughts,  you  ask? 
Whose    fault    it    was,    that    she    should    have    such 

thoughts  ? 
N^one's  fault,  none's  fault.     The  light  comes,  and  we 

see  : 
JJut  if  it  were  not  truly  for  our  eyes, 
There  would  be  nothing  seen,  for  all  the  light ; 
And  so  with  Marian.     If  she  saw  at  last. 
The  sense  was  in  hei' — Lady  Waldemar 
Had  spoken  all  in  vain  else." 

"  0  my  heart, 
0  prophet  in  my  heart,"  I  cried  aloud, 
"  Then  Lady  ^Valderaar  spoke  !" 

''Did  she  speak," 
Mused  Marian  softly — "  or  did  she  only  sign  ? 
Or  did  she  put  a  word  into  her  face 
And  look,  and  so  impress  you  with  tlie  word  ? 
Or  leave  it  in  the  foldings  of  her  gown, 
Like  rosemary  smells,  a  movement  will  shake  out 
When  no  one's  conscious  ?  who  shall  say,  or  guess? 
One  thing  alone  was  certain — from  the  day 
The  gracious  lad}'  paid  a  visit  first, 
Slie,  Marian,  saw  things  ditterent — felt  distrust 
Of  all  that  sheltering  roof  of  circumstance 
Her  hopes  were  building  into  with  clay  nests : 
Her  heart  was  restless,  pacing  up  and  down 
And  tl uttering,  like  dumb  creatures  before  storms, 
Not  knowing  wherefore  she  was  ill  at  ease." 

"  And  still  the  lady  came,"  said  Marian  Erie, 

"  Much  oftener  than  he  knew  it,  Mister  Leigh. 

She  bade  me  never  tell  him  that  she  had  come, 

She  liked  to  love  me  better  than  he  knew, 

So  very  kind  was  Lady  Waldemar: 

And  every  time  she  brought  with  her  more  light, 

And  every  light  made  sorrow  clearer  .  .   Well, 


?>u 


AURORA     LEIGH. 


Ah,  well !  we  cannot  give  her  blame  for  that ; 

'Twould  be  the  same  thing  if  an  angel  came, 

Whose   right    should    prove  our  wrong.     And  every 

time 
The  lady  came,  she  looked  more  beautiful, 
And  spoke  more  like  a  flute  among  green  trees, 
Until  at  last,  as  one,  whose  heart  being  sad 
On  hearing  lovely  music,  suddenly- 
Dissolves  in  weeping,  I  brake  out  in  tears 
Before  her  .  .  asked  her  counsel  .  .  '  had  1  erred 
In  being  too  happy  ?  would  she  set  me  straight  ? 
For  she,  being  wise  and  good  and  born  above 
The  flats  I  hail  never  climbed  from,  could  perceive 
If  such  as  I,  might  grow  upon  the  hills  ; 
And  whether  such  poor  herb  sufficed  to  grow 
For  Romne}'  Leigh  to  break  his  fast  upon't — 
Or  would  he  pine  on  such,  or  haply  starve?' 
She  wrapt  me  in  her  generous  arms  at  once. 
And  let  me  dream  a  moment  how  it  feels 
To  have  a  real  mother,  like  some  girls: 
But  when  I  looked,  her  face  was  younger  .  .  ay, 
Youth's  too  bright  not  to  fee  a  little  hard. 
And  beauty  keeps  itself  still  uppermost. 
That's  true  ! — though  Lady  Waldemar  was  kind, 
She  hurt  me,  hurt,  as  if  the  morning-sun 
Should  smite  us  on  the  eyelids  when  we  sleep. 
And  wake  us  up  with  headache.     A}-,  and  soon 
Was  light  enough  to  make  mj'  heart  ache  too  : 
She  told  me  truths  I  asked  for  .  .   'twas  my  fault 
'  That  Romney  could  not  love  me,  if  he  would. 
As  men  call  loving  ;  there  are  bloods  that  flow 
Together,  like  some  rivers,  and  not  mix, 
Through  contraries  of  nature.      He  indeed 
Was  set  to  wed  me,  to  espouse  my  class, 
Act  out  a  rash  opinion — and,  once  wed. 
So  just  a  man  and  gentle,  could  not  choose 
But  make  ni}'  life  as  smooth  as  marriage-ring, 
IJespeak  me  mildly,  keep  me  a  cheerful  house, 
With  servants,  broaches,  all  the  flowers  I  like<l. 
And  pretty  dresses,  silk  the  whole  year  round  '  .  . 
At  which  I  stopped  her — '  This  for  me.     And  now 
For  him.'' — She  murmured — truth  grevv  difficult  ; 
She  owned,  '  'Twas  plain  a  man  like  Ilouine}'  Leigh 
Required  a  wife  more  level  to  himself 
If  day  by  day  he  had  to  bend  his  height 
To  pick  up  sympathies,  opinions,  thoughts. 


AURORA     LEIOH.  34.'5 

And  interchange  the  common  talk  of  life 

Which  helps  a  man  to  live  as  well  as  talk, 

His  (lays  were  heavily  taxed.     Wlio  bnys  a  staff 

To  fit  the  hand,  that  reaches  but  the  knee? 

Ile'd  feel  it  bitter  to  be  forced  to  miss 

The  perfect  joy  of  married  snited  pairs, 

Who  bursting  tlirongh  the  separating  hedge 

Of  personal  dues  with  that  sweet  eglantine 

Of  equal  love,  keep  saying,  "  So  we  think, 

It  strikes  us — that's  our  fancy."  ' — When  I  asked 

'  If  earnest  will,  devoted  love,  employed 

In  youth  like  mine,  would  fail  to  raise  me  up — 

As  two  strong  arms  will  always  raise  a  child 

To  a  fruit  hung  overliead  ?'  she  sighed  and  sighed.  .  . 

'  That  could  not  lie,'  she  feared.      '  You  take  a  pink. 

You  dig  about  its  roots  and  w^ater  it, 

And  so  improve  it  to  a  garden  pink. 

But  will  not  change  it  to  a  heliotrope, 

The  kind  remains.     And  then  the  harder  truth — 

This  Romney  Leigh,  so  rash  to  leap  a  pale, 

So  bold  for  conscience,  quick  for  martyrdom. 

Would  suffer  steadily  and  never  flinch, 

But  suffer  surely  and  keenly,  when  his  class 

Turned  shoulder  on  him  for  a  shameful  match, 

And  set  him  upas  nine-pin  in  their  talk, 

To  bowl  him  down  with  jcstings.'- — There,  she  paused  ; 

And  wlien  I  used  the  pause  in  doubting  that 

We  wronged  liira  after  all  in  what  we  feared — 

'Suppose  such  things  should  never  touch  him,  more 

In  his  high  conscience  (if  the  thing  should  be). 

Than,  when  the  queen  sits  in  an  upper  room. 

The  horses  in  the  street  can  spatter  her  ! ' — 

A  moment,  hope  came — Init  the  lady  closed 

That  door  and  nicked  the  lock,  and  shut  it  out, 

Observing  wisely  that,  '  the  tender  heart 

Which  made  him  over-soft  to  a  lower  class, 

Could  scarcely  fail  to  make  him  sensitive 

To  a  higher — how  they  thought,  and  what  the}'  felt.' 

"  Alas,  alas,"  said  Marian,  rocking  slow 

The  pretty  baby  who  was  near  asleep, 

The  eyelids  creeping  over  the  blue  balls — 

"  She  made  it  clear,  too  clear — I  saw  the  whole  ! 

And  yet  who  knows  if  I  had  seen  my  way 

Straight  out  of  it,  hy  looking,  though  'twas  clear 

Unless  the  generous  lady   'ware  of  this, 


rnO  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Had  set  her  own  house  all  afire  for  me, 

To  liglit  rae  forwards?     Leaning  on  my  face 

Her  heavy  agate  eyes  wliich  crushed  my  will. 

She  told  me  tenderly  (as  when  men  come  « 

To  a  bedside  to  tell  people  they  must  die), 

She  knew  of  knowledge — ay,  of  knowledge,  knew, 

That  Romney  Leigh  had  loved  her  formerly  ; 

And  she  loved  him,  she  might  say,  now  the  chance 

Was  past  .  .  but  that,  of  course,  he  never  guessed — 

For  something  came  between  them  .  .  something  thin 

As  a  cobweb  .  .  catching,  ever^'  fl}-  of  doubt 

To  hold  it  buzzing  at  the  window  pane 

And  help  to  dim  the  daylight.     Ah,  man's  pride 

Or  woman's — which  is  greatest  ?  most  averse 

To  brushing  cobwebs  ?     Well,  but  she  and  he 

Remained  fast  friends  ;  it  seemed  not  more  than  so, 

Because  he  had  bound  his  hands  and  could  not  stir  : 

An  hono'rable  man,  if  somewhat  rash  ; 

And  she,  not  even  for  Romne}-,  would  she  spill 

A  blot  .  .  as  little  even  as  a  tear  .  . 

Upon  his  marriage-contract — not  to  gain 

A  better  joy  for  two  than  came  by  that ! 

For,  though  I  stood  between  her  heart  and  heaven, 

She  loved  me  wholly.'  " 

Did  I  laugh  or  curse? 
I  think  I  sat  there  silent,  hearing  all. 
And  hearing  double — Marian's  tale,  at  once, 
And  Romney's  marriage-vow,  ''I  HI  keep  to  thee," 
Which  means  that  woman-serpent.     Is  it  time 
For  church  now  ? 

"  Lady  Waldemar  spoke  more," 
Continued  Marian,  "  but  as  when  a  soul 
Will  pass  out  through  the  sweetness  of  a  song 
Beyond  it,  voj-aging  the  up-hill  road — 
p]ven  so,  mine  wandered  from  the  things  I  heard, 
To  those  I  suffered.     It  was  afterward 
I  shaped  the  resoluMon  to  the  act. 
For  many  hours  we  talked.     What  need  to  talk  ? 
The  fate  was  clear  and  close  ;  it  touched  ni}-  eyes  ; 
But  still  the  generous  lady  tried  to  keep 
The  case  afloat,  and  would  not  let  it  go, 
And  argued,  struggled  upon  Marian's  side. 
Which  was  not  Romney's  !  though  she  little  knew 
What  ugly  monster  would  take  up  the  end — 
^Vhat  griping  death  within  the  drowning  death 
Was  ready  to  complete  my  sum  of  death." 


A  U  RO  R  A     LE  I  a  H.  31' 

[  thought — Perhaps  he's  sliding  now  the  ring 
Upon  that  woman's  finger  .  . 

Slie  went  on : 
•'The  lad}',  failing  to  prevail  her  way, 
Upgathered  ni}'  torn  wishes  from  the  ground, 
An<l  piereed  tliem  with  her  strong  benerolencw; 
And,  as  I  thought  I  could  breathe  freer  air 
Away  from  England,  going  without  pause. 
Without  farewell — ^just  breaking  with  a  jerk 
Tiie  blossomed  offshoot  from  my  tiiorny  life — 
She  promised  kindly  to  provide  the  means, 
"With  instant  passage  to  the  colonies 
And  full  protection,  would  commit  me  straight 
'  To  one  who  once  had  been  her  waiting-maid 
And  had  the  customs  of  the  world,  intent 
On  clianging  England  for  Australia 
Herself,  to  carr^-  out  her  fortune  so.' 
For  which  I  thanUed  the  Lady  Waldeniar, 
As  men  upon  their  deatli-beds  thank  last  friends 
Who  la}'^  the  pillow  straight :  it  is  not  much, 
And  yet  'tis  all  of  which  they  are  capable. 
This  lying  smoothl}-  in  a  bed  to  die. 
And  so,  'twas  fixed  ; — and  so,  from  da}'  to  day 
The  woman  named,  came  in  to  visit  me." 

Just  then,  the  girl  stopped  speaking — sat  erect, 

And  stared  at  me  as  if  I  had  been  a  ghost, 

(Perhaps  I  looked  as  white  as  an}'  ghost) 

With  large-eyed  horror.     "Does  God  make,"  she  said 

"  All  sorts  of  creatures,  reall}',  do  you  think  ? 

Or  is  it  that  the  Devil  slavers  them 

So  excellently,  that  we  come  to  doubt 

Who's  strongest,  He  who  makes,  or  he  who  mars  ? 

I  never  liked  the  woman's  face,  or  voice. 

Or  ways  :  it  made  me  blush  to  look  at  her  ; 

It  made  me  tremble  if  she  touched  my  hand  ; 

And  when  she  spoke  a  fondling  word,  I  shrank, 

As  if  one  hated  me,  who  had  power  to  hurt ; 

And  every  time  she  came,  my  veins  ran  cold. 

As  somebody  were  walking  on  m}'  grave. 

At  last  I  spoke  to  I^ady  Waldemar: 

*  Could  such  an  one  be  good  to  trust?'  I  asked. 

Whereat  the  lady  stroked  m}'  cheek  and  laugheil 

Her  silver-laugh — (one  must  be  born  to  laugh. 

To  put  such  music  in  it)  '  Foolish  girl. 

Your  scattered  wits  are  gathering  wool  beyond 


348  AURORA     LEIGH. 

The  sheep-walk  reaches! — leave  the  thing  to  me.' 
And  therefore,  half  in  trust,  and  half  in  scorn 
That  I  had  heart  still  for  another  fear 
In  such  a  safe  despair,  I  left  the  thing. 

"  The  rest  is  short.     I  was  obedient : 

I  wrote  my  letter  which  delivered  him 

From  Marian,  to  his  own  prosperities. 

And  followed  that  bad  guide.     The  lady? — hush — 

I  never  blame  the  lad^'.     Ladies  who 

Sit  hiih,  however  willing  to  look  down. 

Will  scarce  see  lower  than  their  dainty  feet : 

And  Lady  Waldemar  saw  less  than  I, 

With  what  a  Devil's  daughter  I  went  forth 

The  swine's  road,  headlong  over  a  precipice, 

In  such  a  curl  of  hell-foam  caught  and  choked. 

No  shriek  of  soul  in  anguish  could  pierce  thx'ough 

To  fetch  some  help.     They  say  there's  help  in  heaven 

For  all  such  cries.     But  if  one  cries  from  hell  .  .  . 

What  then  ? — the  heavens  are  deaf  upon  that  side 

A  woman  .  .  hear  me — let  me  make  it  plain — 

A  woman  .  .  not  a  monster  .  .  both  her  breasts 

Made  right  to  suckle  babes  .  .  she  took  me  off, 

A  woman  also,  j-oung  and  ignorant. 

And  heavy  with  vay  grief,  m}'  two  poor  eyes 

Near  washed  away  with  Aveeping,  till  the  trees, 

The  blessed  unaccustomed  trees  and  fields, 

Kan  either  side  the  train,  like  stranger  dogs 

Unworthy  of  any  notice — took  me  off. 

So  dull,  so  blind,  and  only  half  alive, 

Not  seeing  by  what  road,  nor  by  what  ship. 

Nor  toward  what  place,  nor  to  what  end  of  all. — 

Men  carr}^  a  corpse  thus — past  the  doorway,  past 

The  garden-gate,  the  children's  playground,  up 

The  green  lane — then  they  leave  it  in  the  pit. 

To  sleep  and  find  corruption,  cheek  to  cheek 

With  him  who  stinks  since  Friday. 

"But  suppose; 
To  go  down  with  one's  soul  into  the  grave — 
To  go  down  half  dead,  half  alive,  I  say, 
And  wake  up  with  corruption,  .  .  cheek  to  cheek 
With  him  who  stinks  since  Friday !     There  it  is. 
And  that's  the  horror  oft.  Miss  Leigh. 

"You  feel  r 
You  understand  ? — no,  do  not  look  at  me. 
But  understand.     The  blank,  blind,  weary  way 


AURORA     LEIOII.  349 

Which  led  .  .  where'er  it  led  .  .  awa}',  at  least ; 
The  shifted  ship  .  .  to  Sydney  or  to  France  .  . 
Still  bound,  wherever  else,  to  another  land  ; 
The  swooning  sickness  on  the  dismal  sea, 
The  foreign  sliore,  the  shameful  house,  the  night, 
The  feeble  blood,  the  heavy-headed  grief,  .  .  . 
No  need  to  bring  tiieir  damnable  drugged  cup, 
And  3'et  they  brought  it!     Hell's  so  prodigal 
Of  devil's  gifts  .  .  hunts  liberally  in  packs, 
Will  kill  no  poor  small  creature  of  the  wilds 
But  tifty  red  wide  thi'oats  must  smoke  at  it — 
As  HIS  at  me  .  .  when  waking  up  at  last  .  . 
I  told  you  that  I  waked  up  in  the  grave. 

"Enough  so! — it  is  plain  enough  so.     True, 

We  wretches  cannot  tell  out  all  our  wrong, 

Without  offence  to  decent  happy  folk. 

1  know  that  we  must  scrupulously  hint 

With  half-words,  delicate  reserves,  the  thing 

Which  no  one  scrupled  we  should  feel  in  full. 

Let  pass  the  rest,  then  ;  only  leave  my  oath 

Upon  this  sleeping  child — man's  violence, 

Not  man's  seduction,  made  me  what  I  am, 

As  lost  as  .  .  I  told  him  1  should  be  lost ; 

When  mothers  fail  us  can  we  help  ourselves  ? 

That's  latal ! — And  you  call  it  being  lost, 

That  down    came  next   day's   noon   and  caught   me 

there 
Half  gibbering  and  half  raving  on  the  floor, 
And  wondering  what  had  happened  up  in  heaven, 
That  suns  should  dare  to  shine  when  God  himself 
Was  certainl}'  abolished. 

"  I  was  mad — 
How  many  weeks  I  know  not — many  weeks. 
I  think  they  let  me  go,  when  I  was  mad. 
They  feared  ray  eyes  and  loosed  me,  as  bo^'S  mighi 
A  mad  dog  which  they  had  tortured.     IJp  and  down 
I  went  by  road  and  village,  over  tracts 
Of  open  foreign  country,  large  and  strange, 
Crossed  everywhere  by  long  thin  poplar-lines 
Like  fingers  of  some  ghastly  skeleton  Hand 
Through  sunlight  and  through  moonlight  evermore 
Pushed  out  from  hell  itself  to  pluck  me  back. 
And  resolute  to  get  me,  slow  and  sure  : 
While  every  roadside  Christ  upon  his  cross 
Hung  reddening  through  his  gory  wounds  at  mf, 


350  AURORA     LEIGH. 

And  shook  his  nails  in  tuii^er,  and  carae  down 

To  follow  a  mile  after,  wading  up 

The   low  vines   and  green    wheat,  crying   '  Take  the 

girl  ? 
She's    none    of    mine    from    henceforth.'      Then,    I 

knew, 
(But  this  is  somewhat  dimmer  than  the  rest) 
The  charitable  peasants  gave  me  bread 
And  leave  to  sleep  in  straw  :  and  twice  they  tied, 
At  parting,  Marj-'s  image  round  my  neck — 
How  heavy  it  seemed  !  as  heavy  as  a  stone ; 
A  woman  had  been  strangled  with  less  weight: 
I  threw  it  in  a  ditch  to  keep  it  clean 
And  ease  my  breath  a  little,  when  none  looked  ; 
I  did  not  need  such  safeguards  : — brutal  men 
Stopped  short,  Miss   Leigh,  in  insult,  when    they  had 

seen 
My  face— I  must  have  had  an  awful  look. 
And  so  I  lived:  the  weeks  passed  on — I  lived. 
'Twas  living  my  old  tramp-life  o'er  agnin. 
But,  this  time,  in  a  dream,  and  hunted  round 
Bj-  some  prodigious  Dream-fear  at  my  back 
Which  ended,  yet:  my  brain  cleared  presently, 
And  there  1  sat,  one  evening,  by  the  road, 
I,  Marian  Erie,  myself,  alone,  undone, 
Facing  a  sunset  low  upon  the  flats, 
As  if  it  were  the  finish  of  all  time — 
The  great  red  stone  upon  my  sepulchre, 
Which  angels  were  too  weak  to  roll  away." 


SEVENTH     BOOK. 

"  The  woman's  motive  ?  shall  we  daub  ourselves 

With  finding  roots  for  nettles?  'tis  soft  clay 

And  easily  explored.     She  had  the  means, 

The  moneys,  by  the  lady's  liberal  grace. 

In  trust  for  that  Australian  scheme  and  me, 

\Vhich  so,  that  she  might  clutch  with  both  hrr  hand^ 

And  chink  to  her  naughty  uses  undisturbed, 

She  served  me  (after  all  it  was  not  strange  ; 

'Twas  only  what  my  motlier  would  have  done) 

A  motherly,  unmerciful,  good  turn. 


AURORA      LEIGH.  351 

'•  Well,  after,     'riiere  are  nettles  everywhere, 

Bat  smooth  green  grasses  are  more  eoininon  still  ; 

The  blue  of  heaven  is  larger  than  the  cloud  ; 

A  miller's  wife,  at  Clich}-  took  me  in 

And  spent  her  pity  on  me — -made  me  calm 

And  merel}'^  very  reasonably  sad. 

She  found  me  a  servant's  place  in  Paris  where 

I  tried  to  take  the  cast-olf  life  again, 

And  stood  as  quiet  as  a  beaten  ass 

VViio,  having  fallen  through  overloads  stands  up 

To  let  them  charge  him  with  another  pack. 

"  A  few  -months,  so.     My  mistress,  young  and  light, 

Was  easy  with  me,  less  for  kindness  than 

Because  she  led,  herself,  an  easy  time 

Betwixt  her  lover  and  her  looking-glass, 

Scarce  knowing  which  wa}'   she  was  praised  the  most. 

She  felt  so  pretty  and  so  pleased  all  day 

She  could  not  take  the  trouble  to  be  cross. 

But  sometimes,  as  I  stooped  to  tie  her  shoe, 

Would  tap  me  softly  with  her  slender  foot. 

Still  restless  with  the  last  night's  dancing  in't, 

And  say,  '  Fie,  pale-face!  are  3'ou  English  girls 

All  grave  and  silent  ?  mass-book  still,  and  Lent  ? 

And  first-communion  colois  on  your  cheeks, 

Worn  past  the  time  for't?  little  fool,  be  guy  1 ' 

At  w^hich  she  vanished,  like  a  fairy,  through 

A  gap  of  silver  laughter. 

"  Came  an  hour 
When  all  went  on  otherwise.     She  did  not  speak, 
But  clenched  her  brows,  and  clipped  me  with  here^'es 
As  if  a  viper  with  a  [)air  of  tongs. 
Too  far  for  an}'  touch,  yet  near  enough 
To  view  the  writhing  creature — then  at  last; 
'  Stand  still  there,  in  the  holy  virgin's  name. 
Thou  Marian  ;  thou'rt  no  reputable  girl, 
Although  snfticient  dull  for  twenty  saints  ! 
I  think  thou  mock'st  me  and  my  house,'  she  said  ; 
'  Confess,  thou'lt  be  a  mother  in  a  month, 
Thou^mask  of  saintship.' 

"  Could  I  answer  her  ? 
The  light  broke  in  so  :  it  meant  that  then,  that  ? 
I  had  not  thought  of  that,  in  all  my  thoughts — 
Through  all  the  cold,  numb  aching  of  my  brow, 
Through  all  the  heaving  of  impatient  life 
Which  threw  me  on  death  at  intervals,  through  all 


«52  AURORA     LEIGH. 

The  iipbveak  of  the  fountains  of  my  heart 

The  rains  had  swelled  too  hirge :  it  could  mean  thai 

Did  God  make  mothers  out  of  victims,  then, 

And  set  such  pure  amens  to  hideous  deeds  ? 

Why  not  ?     He  overl)lows  an  ugly  grave 

With  violets  which  blossom  in  the  spring. 

And  /  could  be  a  mother  in  a  month ! 

I  hope  it  was  not  wicked  to  be  glad. 

I  lifted  up  my  voice  and  wept,  and  laughed, 

To  heaven,  not  her,  until  it  tore  my  throat. 

'  Confess,  confess !'  what  was  there  to  confess, 

Kxcept  man's  cruelt}-,  except  my  wrong  ? 

Except  this  anguish,  or  this  ecstasy  ? 

This  shame,  or  glory  ?     The  light  woman  there 

M'as  small  to  take  it  in  :  an  acorn-cup 

AVould  take  the  sea  in  sooner. 

"  '  Good,'  she  cried  ; 
'  Unmarried  and  a  mother,  and  she  laughs  ! 
These  unchaste  girls  are  always  impudent. 
Get  out,  intriguer  !  leave  my  house,  and  trot: 
I  wonder  you  should  look  me  in  the  face, 
With  such  a  filthy  secret.' 

"  Then  I  rolled 
My  scanty  bundle  up,  and  went  my  way, 
iVashed    white    with   weeping,    shuddering    head   and 

foot 
With  blind  h^ysteric  passion,  staggering  forth 
Beyond  those  doors.     'Twas  natural,  of  course, 
She  should  not  ask  me  where  I  meant  to  sleep ; 
I  might  sleep  well  beneath  the  heavj^  Seine, 
Like  others  of  my  sort ;  the  bed  was  laid 
For  us.     But  any  woman,  womanly. 
Had  thought  of  him  who  should  be  in  a  month. 
The  sinlfss  babe  that  should  be  in  a  month. 
And  if  by  chance  he  might  be  warmer  housed 
Than  underneath  such  dreary,  dripping  eave.s  ' 

J  broke  on  Marian  there.     "  Yet  she  herself, 
A  wife,  I  think,  had  scandals  of  her  own, 
A  lover,  not  her  husband." 

"  A}^"  she  said, 
"  But  gold  and  meal  are  measured  otherwise ; 
I  learnt  so  much  at  school,"  said  Marian  Erie. 

"  0  crooked  world,"  I  cried,  "  ridiculous 
If  not  so  lamentable  !     It's  the  way 


ALRORA     LEIGH.  353 

With  these  light  women  of  a  thrifty  vice, 
My  Marian — always  hard  upon  the  rent 
In  an}'  sister's  virtue!  while  they  keep 
Their  chastity  so  darned  with  perfidy, 
That,  though  a  rag  itself,  it  looks  as  well 
Across  a  street,  in  balcony  or  coach, 
As  an}^  stronger  stuff  might.     For  mj'  part, 
J'd  rather  take  the  wind-side  of  the  stews 
Than  touch  such  women  Avith  my  finger-end  I 
The}'  top  the  poor  street-walker  by  their  lie. 
And  look  the  better  for  being  so  much  worse  : 
The  devil's  most  devilish  when  respectable. 
But  you,  dear,  and  your  story." 

"  All  the  rest 
Is  here,"  she  said,  and  sighed  upon  tlie  child. 
"  I  found  a  mistress-sempstress  wlio  was  kind 
And  let  me  sew  in  peace  among  her  girls  ; 
And  what  was  better  than  to  draw  the  threads 
All  day  and  half  the  night,  for  him,  and  him  ? 
And  so  I  lived  for  him,  and  so  he  lives, 
And  so  I  know,  by  this  time,  God  lives  too." 
She  smiled  beyond  the  sun,  and  ended  so. 
And  all  my  soul  rose  up  to  take  her  part 
Against  the  world's  successes,  virtues,  fames. 
"  Come  with  me,  sweetest  sister,"  I  returned, 
"And  sit  within  my  house,  and  do  me  good 
From  henceforth,  thou  and  thine  !  ye  are  my  own 
From  henceforth.     I  am  lonely  in  the  world, 
And  thou  art  lonely,  and  the  child  is  half 
An  orphan.     Come,  and,  henceforth,  thou  and  I 
Being  still  together,  will  not  miss  a  friend, 
Kor  he  a  father,  since  two  mothers  shall 
Make  that  up  to  him.     I  am  journeying  south, 
And,  in  ui}'  Tuscan  home  Fll  find  a  niche. 
And  set  thee  there,  my  saint,  the  child  and  thee, 
And  burn  the  lights  of  love  before  thy  face. 
And  ever  at  thy  sweet  look  cross  myself 
From  mixing  with  the  world's  iDrosperities  ; 
That  so,  in  gravity  and  holy  calm, 
AVe  too  ma}^  live  on  toward  the  truer  life." 

She  looked  me  in  the  face  and  answered  not. 
Nor  signed  she  was  unworth}^  nor  gave  thanks, 
But  took  the  sleeping  phild  and  held  it  out 
To  meet  my  kiss,  as  if  requiting  me 
Aud  trusting  me  at  once.     And  thus,  at  once, 


^54  AURORA     LEIGH. 

I  carried  him  and  her  to  where  I  lived ; 

She's  there  now,  in  the  little  room,  asleep, 

I  hear  the  soft  child-breathing  throuj^h  the  door; 

And  all  three  of  us,  at  to-morrow's  break, 

Pass  onward,  homeward,  to  our  Italy. 

Oh,  Romne}^  Leigh,  I  have  3'our  debts  to  pay, 

And  I'll  be  just  and  paj'  them. 

But  yourself! 
To  pay  your  debts  is  scarcely  difficult ; 
To  buy  your  life  is  nearly  impossible, 
Being  sold  away  to  Lamia.     My  head  aches  : 
I  cannot  see  my  road  along  this  dark  ; 
Nor  can  I  creep  and  grope,  as  fits  the  dark. 
For  these  foot-catching  robes  of  womanhood  : 
A  man  might  walk  a  little  .  .   but  I! — He  loves 
The  Lamia-woman — and  I,  write  to  him 
What  stops  his  marriage,  and  destroys  his  peace— 
Or  what,  perhaps,  shall  simply  trouble  him. 
Until  she  only  need  to  touch  his  sleeve 
With  just  a  finger's  tremulous  white  flame. 
Saying,  "Ah — Aurora  Leigh  !  a  pretty  tale, 
A  very  pretty  poet !     I  can  guess 
The  motive" — then  to  catch  his  ejes  in  hers. 
And  vow  she  does  not  wonder — and  they  two 
To  break  in  laughter,  as  the  sea  along 
A  melancholy  coast,  and  float  np  higher. 
In  such  a  laugh,  their  fatal  weeds  of  love ! 
Ay,  fatal,  ay.     And  who  shall  answer  me 
Fate  has  not  hurried  tides  ;  and  if  to-night 
My  letter  would  not  be  a  night  too  late — 
An  arrow  shot  into  a  man  that's  dead. 
To  prove  a  vain  intention.     AYould  1  show 
The  new  wife  vile,  to  make  the  husband  mad  ? 
No,  Lamia!  shut  the  shutters,  bar  the  doors 
From  ever^'  glimmer  on  thj'  seri^ent-skin  ! 
I  will  not  let  th^'  hideous  secret  out 
To  agonize  the  man  I  love — I  mean 
The  friend  I  love  .  .  as  friends  love. 

It  is  strange, 
To-day  while  Marian  told  her  story,  like 
To  absorb  most  listeners,  how  I  listened  chief 
To  a  voice  not  hers,  nor  3et  that  enemy's. 
Nor  God's  in  wrath,  .  .  but  one  that  mixed  with  mine 
Long  years  ago,  among  the  garden-trees, 
And  said  to  me,  to  me  too,  "  Be  m}'  wife, 
Aurora  !"     It  is  strange,  with  what  a  swell 


AURORA     LEIGH.  355 

Of  yearning  passion,  as  a  snow  of  ghosts 

Might  beat  against  the  impervious  doors  of  llea^vn, 

I  tiiouglit,  •'  Now,  if  I  had  been  a  woman,  such 

As  God  made  women,  to  save  men  by  love — 

IJy  jvist  nij'  love  I  might  have  saved  tliis  man. 

And  \nade  a  nobler  poem  for  Uie  world 

Than  all  I  have  failed  in."     liut  I  failed  besides 

In  this ;  and  now  he's  lost !  through  me  alone  ! 

And,  b}'  ni}'  only  fault,  his  empty  house 

Sucks  in,  at  this  same  hour,  a  wind  from  hell 

To  keep  his  hearth  cold,  make  his  casements  creak 

Forever  to  the  tune  of  plague  and  sin — 

0  llouiney,  0  ray  Romney,  0  my  friend  ! 

My  cousin  and  friend !  my  helper,  when  I  woirid, 

■My  love  that  might  be  !  mine ! 

Wh^'',  how  one  weeps 
When  one's  too  weary  !     Were  a  witness  by. 
He'd  sa}'  some  foU}^  .  .  that  I  loved  the  man, 
Who  knows  ?  .  .  and  make  me  laugh  again  for  scorn 
At  strongest,  women  are  as  weak  in  flesh, 
As  men,  at  weakest,  vilest,  are  in  soul : 
So,  hard  for  women  to  keep  pace  with  men  ! 
As  Avell  give  up  at  once,  sit  down  at  once, 
And  weep  as  1  do.     Tears,  tears  !  ivhy,  we  weep  ? 
'Tis  worth  inquiry  ? — Tluit  we've  shamed  a  life, 
Or  lost  a  love,  or  missed  a  world,  perhaps? 
By  no  means.     Simply,  that  we've  walked  too  far, 
Or  talked  too  much,  or  felt  the  wind  i'  the  east — 
And  so  we  weep,  as  if  both  body  and  soul 
Broke  up  in  Avater — this  waj'. 

Poor  mixed  rags 
Forsooth  we're  made  of,  like  those  other  dolls 
That  lean  with  prett}'  faces  into  fairs. 
It  seems  as  if  I  had  a  man  in  me, 
Despising  such  a  woman. 

Yet  indeed, 
To  see  a  wrong  or  suffering  moves  tis  all 
To  undo  it,  though  we  shouUl  undo  ourselves  ; 
Ay,  all  the  more,  that  we  undo  ourselves  ; 
That's  womanly,  past  doubt,  and  not  ill-moved. 
A  natural  movement,  therefore,  on  my  part, 
To  fill  the  chair  up  of  my  cousin's  wife. 
And  save  him  from  a  devil's  company! 
We're  all  so — made  so — 'tis  our  woman's  trade 
To  suffer  torment  for  another's  ease. 
The  world's  male  chivahy  has  perished  out, 


85e  AURORA     LEIGH. 

But  women  are  kniglits-errant  to  the  last ; 
And,  if  Cervantes  had  been  greater  still, 
He  had  made  his  Don  a  Donna. 

So  it  clears, 
And  so  we  rain  our  skies  blue. 

Put  away 
This  weakness.     If,  as  I  have  just  now  said, 
A  man's  within  me — let  him  act  himself, 
Ignoring  the  poor  conscious  trouble  of  blood 
That's  called  the  woman  merel3^     I  will  write 
Plain  words  to  England — if  too  late,  too  late — 
If  ill-accounted,  then  accounted  ill ; 
We'll  trust  the  heavens  with  something. 

"  Dear  Lord  Howe 
You'll  find  a  story  on  another  leaf 
That's  Marian  Erie's — what  noble  friend  of  3'ours 
She  trusted  once,  through  what  flagitious  means 
To  what  disastrous  ends ; — the  story's  true. 
I  found  her  wandering  on  the  Paris  quays, 
A  babe  upon  her  breast — unnatural, 
Unseasonable  outcast  on  such  snows 
Unthawed  to  this  time.     I  will  tax  in  this 
Your  friendship,  friend — if  that  convicted  She 
Be  not  his  wife  yet,  to  denounce  the  facts 
To  himself — but,  otherwise,  to  let  them  pass 
On  tip-toe  like  escaping  murderers. 
And  tell  m^'  cousin,  merely — Marian  lives. 
Is  found,  and  finds  her  home  with  such  a  friend, 
Myself,  Aurora.     Which  good  news,  '  She's  found, 
AVill  help  to  make  him  merry  in  his  love  : 
I  send  it,  tell  him,  for  my  marriage  gift. 
As  good  as  orange-water  for  the  nerves, 
Or  perfumed  gloves  for  headaches — though  aware 
That  he,  except  of  love,  is  scarcely  sick  ; 
I  mean  the  new  love  this  time,  .  .  since  last  year. 
Such  quick  forgetting  on  the  part  of  men  1 
Is  any  shrewder  trick  upon  the  cards 
To  enrich  them  ?  pray  instruct  me  hovv  it's  done. 
First,  clubs — and  while  you  look  at  clubs  it's  spades  j 
That's  prodigy.     The  lightning  strikes  a  man. 
And  when  we  think  to  find  him  dead  and  charred  .   . 
Why,  thei'e  he  is  on  a  sudden,  playing  pipes 
Beneath  the  splintered  elm-tree!     Crime  and  shame 
And  all  their  hoggery  trample  your  smooth  world, 
Noi'  leave  more  foot-marks  than  Apollo's  kiue, 


AURORA     LEIGH.  ;)57 

Wliose  lioofs  were  muffled  l)y  the  thieving  god 

111  tamarisk-leaves  and  myrtle.     I'm  so  sad, 

So  weary  and  sad  to-night,  I'm  somewhat  sour — 

Forgive  me.     To  be  blue  and  shrew  at  once, 

Exceeds  all  toleration  except  yours ; 

But  yours,  I  know,  is  infinite.     Farewell. 

To-morrow  we  take  traiii  for  Italy. 

Speak  gently  of  me  to  your  gracious  wife, 

Ar  one,  however  far,  shall  yet  be  near 

In  loving  wishes  to  3'our  house." 

I  sign. 
Aiul  now  ru  loose  my  heart  upon  a  page. 
This — 

"  Lady  Walderaar,  I'm  very  glad 
I  never  liked  you ;  which  \'ou  knew  so  well. 
Yon  spared  me,  in  your  turn,  to  like  me  muc_. 
Your  liking  sure  had  done  worse  for  me 
Than  has  ^'our  loathing,  though  the  last  appears 
Sufficiently  unscrupulous  to  hurt. 
And  not  afraid  of  judgment.     Now,  there's  space 
Between  our  faces — I  stand  off,  as  if 
I  judged  a  stranger's  portrait  and  pronounced 
Indiffierently  the  type  was  good  or  bad : 
What  matter  to  me  that  the  lines  are  false, 
I  ask  you  ?     Did  I  ever  ink  my  li[)s 
By  drawing  your  name  through  them  as  a  friend's^ 
Or  touch  your  hands  as  lovers  do?  thank  God 
I  never  did  :  and,  since  you've  proved  so  vile, 
Ay,  vile,  I  say — »we'll  show  it  presently — 
Fin  not  obliged  to  nurse  my  friend  in  you. 
Or  wash  out  my  own  blots,  in  counting  yours, 
Or  even  excuse  myself  to  honest  souls 
Who  seek  to  touch  my  lip  or  clasp  m^^  palm — 
'Alas,  but  Lady  Waldemar  came  first!' 
'Tis  true,  b}^  this  time,  3'ou  may  near  me  so 
That  you're  m^'  cousin's  wife.     You've  gambled 
As  Lucifer,  and  won  the  morning  star 
In  that  case — and  the  noble  house  of  Leigh 
Must  henceforth  with  its  good  roof  shelter  you  : 
I  cannot  speak  and  burn  you  up  between 
Those  rafters,  I  who  am  born  a  Leigh — nor  speak 
And    pierce  your  breast  through    Ilomney's,    I    who 

live 
His  friend  and  cousin  ! — so,  3'ou  are  safe.     You  two 
Must  grow  together  like  the  tares  and  wheat 
Till  God's  great  fire. — Hut  make  the  best  of  time 


1358  AURORA     LEIGH. 

,"  And  hide  this  letter  !  let  it  speak  no  more 
Than  I  shall,  how  you  tricked  poor  Marian  Erie, 
And  set  her  own  love  digging  her  own  grave 
Within  her  green  hope's  pretty  garden-ground  ; 
Ay,  sent  her  forth  with  some  one  of  your  sort 
To  a  wicked  house  in  France — from  which  she  fled 
With  curses  in  her  eyes  and  ears  and  throat. 
Her  whole  soul  choked  with  curses — mad,  in  short, 
And  madly  scouring  up  and  down  for  weeks 
The  foreign  hedgeless  country,  lone  and  lost — 
So  innocent,  male-fiends  might  slink  within 
Remote  hell-corners,  seeing  her  so  defiled  ! 

"  But  you — you  are  a  woman  and  more  bold. 

To  do  you  justice,  you'd  not  shrink  to  face  .  . 

We'll  say,  the  unfledged  life  in  the  other  room, 

Which,  treading  down  God's  corn,  you  trod  in  sight 

Of  all  the  dogs,  in  reach  of  all  the  guns — 

Ay,  Marian's  babe,  her  poor  unfathered  child. 

Her  yearling  babe ! — you'd  face  him  when  he  wakes 

And  opens  up  his  wonderful  blue  eyes  : 

You'd  meet  them  and  not  wink  perhaps,  nor  fear 

God's  triumph  in  them  and  supreme  revenge, 

So,  righting  His  creation's  balance-scale 

(You  pulled  as  low  as  Tophet)  to  the  top 

Of  most  celestial  innocence  !     For  me 

Who  am  not  as  bold,  I  own  those  infant  eyes 

Have  set  me  praying. 

"  While  they  look  at  heaven, 
No  need  of  protestation  in  my  words' 
Against  the  place  you've  made  them  !  let  them  look. 
They'll  do  your  business  with  the  heavens,  be  sure  • 
I  spare  you  common  curses. 

"  Ponder  this. 
If  haply  you're  the  wife  of  Uomney  Leigh, 
(For  which  inheritance  beyond  your  birth 
You  sold  that  poisonous  porridge  called  your  soul) 
I  charge  you,  be  his  faithful  and  true  wife ! 
Keep  warm  his  hearth  and  clean  his  board,  and,  when 
He  speaks,  be  quick  with  your  obedience; 
Still  grind  your  paltry  wants  and  low  desires 
To  dust  beneath  his  heel;  though,  even  thus, 
The  ground  must  hurt  him — it  was  writ  of  old, 
'  Y'e  shall  not  yoke  together  ox  and  ass,' 
The  nobler  and  ignobler.     Ay,  but  you 
Shall  do  your  part  as  well  as  such  ill  thing.s 


A  U  R  0  R  A     L  E  I  O  H  .  359 

Can  do  aught  good.     You  shall  not  vex  him — mark, 
You  shall  not  vex  him,  .  .  jar  him  when  he's  sad, 
Or  cross  him  when  he's  eager.     Understand 
To  trick  him  with  apparent  sympathies, 
Nor  let  hira  sec  thee  in  the  face  too  near 
And  unlearn  th\^  sweet  seeming.     Pay  the  price 
Of  lies,  by  being  constrained  to  lie  on  still ; 
Tis  eas}'  for  thy  sort:  a  million  more 
Will  scarcely  damn  thee  deeper. 

"  Doing  which, 
You  are  very  sa-fe  from  Marian  and  myself: 
We'll  breathe  as  softl^'as  the  infant  here, 
And  stir  no  dangerous  embers.     Fail  a  point. 
And  show  our  llomney  wounded,  ill-content, 
Tormented  in  his  home,  .  .  we  open  mouth. 
And  such  a  noise  will  follow,  the  last  trump's 
Will  scarcel}''  seem  more  dreadful,  even  to  you  ; 
You'll  liave  no  pipers  after:  Romnej'  will 
(I  know  him)  pusli  you  forth  as  none  of  his, 
All  other  men  declaring  it  well  done  ; 
Wliile  women,  even  tlie  worst,  your  like  will  diaw 
Their  skirts  back,  not  to  brush  3-ou  in  the  street; 
And  so  I  warn  you.     I'm  .  .  .  Aurora  Leigh." 

The  letter  written,  I  felt  satisfied. 
The  ashes,  smouldering  in  me,  were  thrown  out 
B}'  handfuls  from  me  :  I  had  writ  m^^  heart 
And  wept  ni}'  tears,  and  now  was  cool  and  calm  , 
And,  going  straightway  to  the  neighboring  room, 
I  lifted  up  the  curtains  of  the  bed 
Where  Marian  Erie,  the  babe  upon  her  arm, 
]>otli  faces  leaned  together  like  a  pair 
Of  folded  innocences,  self-complete. 
Each  smiling  from  the  other,  smiled  and  slept. 
There  seemed  no  sin,  no  shame,  no  wrath,  no  grief. 
I  felt,  she  too,  liad  spoken  words  that  night. 
But  softer  certainly,  and  said  to  God— 
AVlio  laughs  in  heaven  perhaps,  that  such  as  I 
Should  make  ado  for  such  as  she — "  Defiled  " 
j  wrote?   "  defiled  "  I  tliought  her  ?     Stoop. 
Stoop  lower,  Aurora!  get  the  angels' leave 
To  creep  in  somewhere,  humbly,  on  your  knees 
Within  this  round  of  sequestration  wliite 
In  wiiich  they  have  wrapt  earth's  foundlings,  hcavou'6 
elect  1 


3G0  AURORA     LEIGH. 

The  next  ^ay,  we  took  train  to  Italy 

And  fled  on  southvvard  in  the  roai*  of  steam. 

The  marriage-bells  of  Roninej'  mnst  be  loud, 

To  sound  so  clear  through  all !  I  was  not  well 

And  truly,  though  the  truth  is  like  a  jest, 

r  could  not  choose  but  fancy,  half  the  way, 

I  stood  alone  1'  the  belfty,  fifty  bells 

Of  naked  iron,  mad  with  merriment, 

(As  one  who  laughs  and  cannot  stop  himself) 

All  clanking  at  me,  in  me,  over  me. 

Until  I  shrieked  a  shriek  I  could  not  hear. 

And  swooned  with  noise — but  still,  along  ray  svvooc. 

Was  'ware  the  baffled  changes  backward  rang, 

Prepared,  at  each  emerging  sense,  to  beat 

And  crash  it  out  with  clangor.     1  was  weak  : 

I  struggled  for  the  posture  of  my  soul 

In  upr-ight  consciousness  of  place  and  time. 

But  evermore,  'twixt  waking  and  asleep, 

Slipped  somehow,  staggered,  caught  at  Marian's  eyes 

A  moment,  (it  is  very  good  for  strength 

To  know  that  some  one  needs  you  to  be  strong) 

And  so  recovered  what  I  called  mj'self. 

For  that  time. 

I  just  knew  it  when  we  swept 
Above  the  old  roofs  of  Dijon.     Lyons  dropped 
A  spark  into  the  night,  half  trodden  out 
Unseen.     But  presentl3'  the  winding  Rhone 
Washed  oat  the  moonlight  large  along  his  banks. 
Which  strained   their  yielding  curves  out  clear  and 

clean 
To  hold  it — shadow  of  town  and  castle  just  blurred 
Upon  the  hurrying  river.     Such  an  air 
Blew  thence  upon  the  forehead — half  an  air 
And  half  a  water — that  I  leaned  and  looked  ; 
Then,  turning  back  on  Marian,  smiled  to  mark 
That  she  looked  only  on  her  child,  who  slept. 
His  face  towards  the  moon  too. 

So  we  passed 
The  liberal  open  coun..ry  and  the  close, 
And  shot  through  tunnels,  like  a  lightning-wedge 
By  great  Thor-hammers  driven  through  the  rock. 
Which,    quivering    through    the    intestine    blackness 

splits, 
And  lets  it  in  at  once  ;  the  train  swept  in 
Athrob  with  effort,  trembling  with  resolve 
The  fieice  denouncing  whistle  wailing  ou 


AURORA     LEiail. 


361 


A.nd  «lying  off  smothered  in  the  shuddering  dark, 

While  we,  self-awed,  drew  troubled  breath,  oppressed 

As  other  1'itans,  underneath  the  pile 

And  nightmare  of  the  mountains.     Out,  at  last, 

T-^  "at ell  the  dawn  afloat  upon  the  land  ! 

—  Mills,  slung  forth  bri^adly  and  gauntly  everywhere, 

Not  crampt  in  their  foundations,  pushing  wide 

Rich  outspreads  of  the  vine^-ards  and  the  corn, 

(As  if  they  entertained  i'  the  name  of  I'rance) 

Wliile,  down  their  straining  sides,  streamed  manifest 

A  soil  as  red  a^  Charlemagne's  knightly  l)lood, 

To  consecrate  the  verdure.     Some  one  said, 

"  Marseilles !  "     And  lo,  the  city  of  Marseilles, 

With  all  her  ships  behind  her,  and  beyond, 

The  scimitar  of  ever-shining  sea, 

For  right-hand  use,  bared  blue  against  the  sky ! 

That  night  we  spent  between  the  puri)le  heaven 

And  purple  water  :     I  think  JNIarian  slept ; 

But  I,  as  a  dog  a-watch  for  his  master's  foot, 

Who  cannot  sleep  or  eat  before  he  hears, 

I  sat  upon  the  deck  and  watched  all  night, 

And  listened  through  the  stars  for  Italy. 

Those  marriage-bells  I  spoke  of,  sounded  far, 

As  some  child's  go-cart  in  the  street  beneath 

To  a  dying  man  who  will  not  pass  the  da}^ 

And  knows  it,  hokling  by  a  hand  he  loves. 

I,  too,  sat  quiet,  satisfied  with  death, 

Sat  silent :  I  could  hear  my  own  soul  speak, 

And  had  my  friend — for  Nature  comes  sometimes 

And  says,  "  I  am  ambassador  for  God." 

I  felt  the  wind  soft  from  the  land  of  souls  ; 

The  old  miraculous  mountains  heaved  in  sight, 

One  straining  past  another  along  the  shore. 

The  wa}"  of  grand  dull  Odyssean  ghosts 

Athirst  to  drink  the  cool  blue  wine  of  seas 

And  stare  on  voyagers.     Peak  pushing  peak 

They  stood  :  I  watched  beyond  that  Tyrian  beJt 

Of  intense  sea  betwixt  them  and  the  ship, 

Down  all  their  sides  the  misty  olive-woods 

Dissolving  in  the  weak  congenial  moon,   ; 

And  still  disclosing  some  brown  convent-tower 

That  seems  as  if  it  grew  from  some  ])rown  rock— 

Or  many  a  little  lighted  village,  dropt 

Like  a  fallen  star,  upon  so  high  a  point. 

You  wonder  what  can  keep  it  in  its  place 

i  rom  sliding:  beadlono:  with  the  waterfalls 


362  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Which  drop  and  powder  all  the  m^-rtle-groves 

With  ppray  of  silver.     Thus  m}^  Italy 

Was  stealing  on  us.     Genoa  broke  wifh  day  ; 

The  Doria's  long  pale  palace  striking  out, 

From  green  hills  in  advance  of  the  white  town, 

A  marble  finger  dominant  to  ships, 

Seen  glimmering  through  the  uncertain  gray  of  dawn. 

But  then  I  did  not  think,  "  my  Italy," 
I  thought,  "  my  father  I  "  0  my  father's  house, 
Without  his  presence! — Places  are  too  much 
Or  else  too  little,  for  immortal  man  ; 
Too  little,  when  love's  Ma}^  o'ergrows  the  ground, 
Too  much,  when  that  luxuriant  wealth  of  green 
Is  rustling  to  our  ankles  in  dead  leaves. 
'Tis  onl}'  good  to  be,  or  here  or  there. 
Because  we  had  a  dream  on  such  a  stone, 
Or  this  or  that — but,  once  being  wholly  waked, 
And  come  back  to  the  stone  without  the  dream, 
"We  trip  upon't — alas!  and  hurt  ourselves; 
Or  else  it  falls  on  us  and  grinds  us  flat. 
The  heaviest  grave-stone  on  this  burying  earth. 
— But  while  I  stood  and  mused,  a  quiet  touch 
Fell  light  upon  m}-  arm,  and,  turning  round, 
A  pair  of  moistened  ejes  convicted  mine. 
''  What,  Marian  !  is  the  babe  astir  so  soon  ?  " 
"  He  sleeps,"  she  answered  ;  "I  have  crept  up  thrice, 
And  seen  you  sitting,  standing,  still  at  watch. 
I  thought  it  did  you  good  till  now,  but  now  "  .  . 
"  But  now,"  I  said,  "  you  leave  the  child  alone." 
"  And  youWe  alone,"  she  answered — and  she  looked 
As  if  I,  too,  were  something.     Sweet  the  help 
Of  one  we  have  helped  !  Thanks,  Marian,  for   tba< 
help. 

I  found  a  house,  at  Florence,  on  the  hill 
Of  Bellosguardo.     'Tis  a  tower  that  keeps 
A  post  of  double-observation  o'er 
The  valley  of  Arno  (holding  as  a  hand 
The  outspread  city)  straight  toward  Fiesole 
And  Mount  Morello  and  the  setting  sun  — 
The  Yallombrosan  mountains  to  the  right, 
Which  sunrise  fills  as  full  as  cr3-stal  cups 
Wine-filled,  and  red  to  the  brim  because  it's  red. 
No  sun  could  die,  nor  yet  be  born,  unseen 
^By  dwellers  at  my  villa  :  morn  and  eve 


AURORA     LEIGH.  363 

Were  magnified  before  us  in  the  pure 

Illimitable  space  and  pause  of  sk}', 

Intense  as  angels'  garments  blanched  with  God, 

Less  blue  than  radiant.      From  the  outer  wall 

Of  the  garden,  dropped  the  mystic  floating  gray 

Of  olive-trees,  (with  interrui)tions  green 

From  maize  and  vine)  until  'twas  caught  and  torn 

On  that  abrupt  black  line  of  cypresses 

Which  signed  the  way  to  Florence.     Beautiful 

The  city  laj^  along  the  ample  vale, 

Cathedral,  tower  and  palace,  piazza  and  street ; 

The  river  trailing  like  a  silver  cord 

Through  all — and  curling  loosely,  both  before 

And  after,  over  the  whole  stretch  of  land 

Sown  whitely  up  and  down  its  opposite  slopes, 

With  farms  and  villas. 

Many  weeks  had  passed, 
No  word  was  granted. — Last,  a  letter  came 
From  Vincent  Carrington  : — •'  My  dear  Miss  Leigh, 
You've  been  as  silent  as  a  poet  should, 
When  any  other  man  is  sure  to  speak. 
If  sick,  if  vexed,  if  dumb,  a  silver-piece 
AVill  split  a  man's  tongue — straight  he  speaks    and 

says, 
'Received    that    check.'      But  3^0 u !  .  .  I     send    you 

funds 
To  Paris,  and  you  make  no  sign  at  all. 
Bemember  I'm  responsible  and  wait 
A  sign  of  3'ou,  ]\[iss  Leigh. 

"  Meantime  ^'our  book 
Is  eloquent  as  if  ,you  were  dumb  ; 
And  conimmou  critics,  ordinaril3'  deaf 
To  such  fine  meanings,  and,  like  deaf  men,  loath 
To  seem  deaf,  answering  chance-wise,  yes  or  no, 
'  It  must  be,'  or  '  it  must  not,'  (most  pronounced 
When  least  convinced)  pronounce  for  once  aright 
You'd  think  they  really  heard — and  so  the\'  do  .  . 
The  burr  of  three  or  four  who  really  hear 
And  praise  your  book  aright:  Fame's  smallest  tvump 
Is  a  great  ear-trumpet  for  the  deaf  as  posts. 
No  other  being  effective.     Fear  not,  friend  ; 
We  think,  here,  j'ou  have  written  a  good  book, 
And  you,  a  woman!     It  was  in  you — yes, 
I  felt  'twas  in  30U :  3'et  I  doubted  half 
If  that  od-force  of  German  Ileichenbach 
Which  still  from  female  finger-tips  burns  blue, 


3G4  AURORA     LEIOII. 

Could  strike  out,  as  our  masculine  white  heats, 
To  quicken  a  man.     Forgive  me.     All  my  heart 
Is  quick  with  3-ours,  since,  just  a  fortnight  siuee, 
I  read  your  book  and  loved  it. 

"  Will  3'ou  love 
My  wife,  too  ?     Here's  my  secret,  I  might  keep 
Amonth  more  from  you  !  but  I  yield  it  up 
Because  I  know  you'll  write  the  sooner  for't — 
Most  women  (of  3'our  height  even)  counting  love 
Life's  onh'  serious  business.     Who's  my  wife 
That  shall  be  in  a  month  ?  you  ask  ?  nor  guess  ? 
Eemember  what  a  pair  of  topaz  eyes 
You  once  detected,  turned  against  the  wall. 
That  morning,  in  my  London  painting-room  ; 
The  face  half-sketched,  and  slnrred  ;  the  eyes  alone  ! 
But  3'ou  .  .  3'ou   caught  tiieni  up   witli  yours,  and  said 
'  Kate  Ward's  e3'es,  surel3'.' — Now,  I  own  the  truth, 
I    had   thrown  them  there    to   keep   thein    safe  from 

Jove  ; 
The3'  would  so  naughtil3'  find  out  their  wa3' 
To  both  the  heads  of  both  m3'  Danaes, 
Where  just  it  made  me  mad  to  look  at  them. 
Such  e3'es  !     1  could  not  paint  or  tiiink  of  e3"es 
But  those — and  so  I  flung  them  into  paint 
And  turned  tliera  to  the  wall's  care.     A3-,  but  now 
I've  let  them  out,  m3'  Kate's  !     I've  paintfed  her, 
(I'll  change  m3'  st3de,  and  leave  mythologies) 
The  whole  sweet  face  ;  it  looks  upon  m3'  soul 
Like  a  face  on  water,  to  beget  itself, 
A  half-length  portrait,  in  a  hanging  cloak 
Like  one  3-ou  wore  once  ;  'tis  a  little  frayed  ; 
I  pressed,  too,  for  the  nude  harmonious  arm — 
But  she  .  .  she'd  have  her  way,  and  have  her  cloak; 
Slie  said  she  could  be  like  3'ou  onl3'-  so, 
And  would  not  miss  the  fortune.     Ah,  my  friend, 
You'll  write  and  say  she  shall  not  miss  your  love 
Through    meeting     mine  ?    in    faith,    she    would    not 

change  : 
She  has  3'Our  books  b3'^  heart,  more  than  m3^  words. 
And  quotes  3'ou  up  against  me  till  I'm  pushed 
Where,  three  months  since,  here  e3'es  were !  na3',  in 

fact. 
Naught  satisfied  her  but  to  make  me  paint, 
Your  last  book  folded  in  her  dimpled  hands, 
nstead  of  my  brown  palette,  as  I  wished, 
f  And,  grant  me,  the  presentment  had  been  newer) 


AURORA     LEIGH. 


305 


She'd  grant  me  nothing:  I've  compounded  for 

The  naming  of  the  \vedding-da3'  next  month, 

And  gladly  too.     'Tis  pretty  to  remark 

How  women  can  love  women  of  your  sort, 

And  tie  their  hearts  with  love-knots  to  your  feet, 

Grow  insolent  about  ^-ou  against  men, 

And  put  us  down  by  putting  up  the  lip, 

As  if  a  man — there  are  such,  let  us  own, 

Who  write  not  ill — remains  a  man,  poor  wretch. 

While  you !   Write  far  worse  than  Aurora  Leigh, 

And  there'll  be  women  who  believe  of  you 
(Besides  n)y  Kate)  that  if  you  walked  on  sand 
You  would  not  leave  a  foot-print. 

"  Are  you  put 
To  wonder  by  my  marriage,  like  poor  Leigh  ? 
'  Kate    Ward  ! '    he   said.     '  Kate    Ward  ! ''  lie    said 

anew. 
'I   thought  .  .  .  '  he  said,  and  stopped—'  I  did  not 

think  .  .  .  ' 
And  then  he  dropped  to  silence. 

"  Ah,  he's  changed. 
I  had  not  seen  him,  you're  aware,  for  long. 
But  went  of  course.     1  have  not  touched  on  this 
Through  all  this  letter — conscious  of  your  heart, 
And  writing  lightlier  for  the  heavy  f\ict, 
As  clocks  are  voluble  with  lead. 

"  How  weak. 
To  say  I'm  sorry.     Dear  Leigh,  dearest  Leigh  ! 
In  those  ohl  days  of  Shropshire — pardon  me — 
When  he  and  you  fought  many  a  field  of  gold 
On  what  you  should  do,  or  you  should  not  do, 
Make  bread  of  verses,  (it  just  caine  to  that) 
I  thought  you'd  one  day  draw  a  silken  peace 
Through  a  gold  ring.      I  thought  so.      Foolishly, 
The  event  proved — for  you  went  more  opposite 
To  each  other,  month  by  month,  and  year  bv  year, 
Until  this  hapi)ened.     God  knows  best,  we  sa}-, 
But  hoarsely.     AVhen  the  fever  took  him  first, ' 
Just  after  I  had  writ  to  ^-ou  in  France, 
They  tell  me  Lady  Waldemar  mixed  drinks 
And  counted  grains,  like  any  salaried  nurse. 
Excepting  that  she  wept  too.     Then  Lord  Howe, 
You're  right   about    Lord    Howe!     Lord    Howe's    a 

trump ; 
And  yet,  with  such  in  his  hand,  a  man  like  Leigl 
May  lose  as  he  does.     There's  an  end  to  all—'' 


366  AURORA      LEIGH 

Yes,  eren  this  letter,  though  the  second  sheet 

^lay  find  jou  doubtful.     Write  a  word  for  Kate  : 

Even  now  she  I'eadsmy  letters  like  a  wife, 

And  if  she  sees  her  name,  I'll  see  her  smile, 

And  share  the  luck.     So,  bless  3'on,  friend  of  two! 

I  will  not  ask  3'ou  what  your  feeling  is 

At  Florence,  with  my  pictures.     I  can  hear 

Your  heart  a-flutter  over  the  snow-hills  ; 

And,  just  to  pace  the  Pitti  with  3'ou  once, 

I'd  give  a  half-hour  of  to-morrow's  walk 

^Yith  Kate  .  .  I  think  so.     Yincent  Carrington." 

The  noon  was  hot;  the  air  scorched  like  the  sun, 
And  was  shut  out.     The  closed  persiani  threw 
Their  long-scored  shadows  on  ra}-  villa-floor. 
And  interlined  the  golden  atmospliere 
Straight,  still — across  the  pictures  on  the  wall 
The  statuette  on  the  console,  (of  3'oung  Love 
And  P.s^'che  made  one  marble  b^'  a  kiss) 
The  low  couch  where  I  leaned,  the  table  near, 
The  vase  of  lilies,  Marian  pulled  last  night, 
(p]ach  green  leaf  and  each  white  leaf  ruled  in  black 
As  if  for  writing  some  new  text  of  fate) 
And  tlie  open  letter,  rested  on  my  knee — 
But  there,  the  lines  swerved,  trembled  though  I  sat 
Ijntroul)led  .  .  plainly,  .  .  reading  it  again 
And  three  times.     Well,  he's  married  ;  that  is  clear, 
No  wonder  that  he's  married,  nor  much  more 
That  Yincent's  therefore,  '■  sorr^-."     Why,  of  course 
The  lady  nursed  him  when  he  was  not  well, 
Mixed  drinks — unless  nepenthe  was  the  drink, 
'Twas  scarce  worth  telling.     But  a  man  in  love 
Will  see  the  whole  sex  in  his  mistress'  hood. 
The  prettier  for  its  lining  of  fair  rose  ; 
Although  he  catches  back,  and  says  at  last, 
"  I'm  sorr}'."     Sorr3'.     Lady  Waldemar 
At  prettiest,  under  the  said  hood,  preserved 
From  such  a  light  as  I  could  hold  to  her  face 
To  flare  its  ugly  wrinkles  out  to  shame — 
Is  scarce  a  wife  for  Bomney,  as  friends  judge, 
Aurora  Leigh,  or  Yincent  Carrington — 
That's  plain.     And  if  he's  "  conscious  of  my  heart"  .  . 
l*erhaps  it  is  natural,  though  the  phrase  is  strong  ; 
(One's  apt  to  use  strong  phrases,  being  in  love) 
And  even  that  stuff  of  "  fields  of  gold,"  "gold  rings," 
And    what  he    "thought."    poor  A'inceiit !    what   he 
"thought," 


AUROUA     LEIOH.  367 

May  never  mean  onougli  to  ruffle  me. 

— Wliy,  this  room  stilies.     Better  liurn  tLan  choke; 

l>est  have  air,  air,  althouuh  it  comes  with  fire, 

Throw  open  bliutVs  and  wincfows  to  the  noon 

And  take  a  blister  on  my  brow  instead 

Of  this  dead  weight!  best,  perfectly  be  stunned 

By  those  insufferable  cicale,  sick 

And  hoarse  with  rapture  of  the  summer  heat, 

That  sing  like  poets,  till  their  hearts  break,  .  .  sing 

Till  men  say,  "It's  too  tedious." 

Books  succeed, 
And  lives  fail.     Do  I  feel  it  so,  at  last  ? 
Kate  loves  a  worn-out  clo^ik  for  being  like  mine. 
While  I  live  self-despised  for  being  m^yself, 
And  yearn  toward  some  one  else,  who  yearns  away 
From  what  he  is,  in  his  turn.     Strain  a  step 
Forever,  yet  gain  no  step  ?     Are  we  such. 
We  cannot,  with  our  admirations  even, 
Our  tip-toe  aspirations,  touch  a  thing 
That's  higher  than  we  ?  is  all  a  dismal  flat, 
And  God  alone  above  each — as  the  sun 
O'er  level  lagunes,  to  make  them  shine  and  stink- 
Laying  stress  upon  us  with  immediate  flame. 
While  we  respond  with  our  niiasmal  fog, 
And  call  it  mounting  higher,  because  we  grow 
More  highly  fatal  ? 

Tush,  Aurora  Leigh! 
Yon  wear  your  sackcloth  looped  in  Coesar's  way, 
And  brag  3'our  failings  as  mankind's.     Be  still. 
There  u  what's  higher  in  this  verv  world, 
Than  you  can  live,  or  catch  it.     Stand  aside, 
And  look  at  others — instance  little  Kate! 
She'll  make  a  perfect  wife  for  Carrington. 
She  alvva3-s  has  been  looking  round  the  earth 
For  something  good  and  green  to  alight  upon 
And  nestle  into,  with  those  soft-winged  eyes 
Subsiding  now  beneath  his  manly  hand 
'Twixt*treml)ling  lids  of  inexpressive  joy : 
I  will  not  scorn  her,  after  all,  too  much, 
That  so  much  she  should  love  me.     A  wise  man 
Can  pluck  a  leaf,  and  find  a  lecture  in't ; 
And  I,  too,  .   .   God  has  made  me — I've  a  heart 
That's  capable  of  worship,  love,  and  loss  ; 
We  say  the  same  of  Shakspeare's.     I'll  be  meek. 
And  learn  to  reverence,  even  this  poor  myself. 


oG8  AURORA     LEIGH. 

The  book,  too — pass  it,     "  A  good  book,"  saj's  he, 
"  And  you  a  woman."     I  had  laughed  at  that. 
But  long  since.     I'm  a  woman — it  is  true  ; 
Alas,  and  woe  to  us,  when  we  feel  it  most ! 
Then,  least  care  have  we  for  the  crowns  and  goals, 
And  compliments  on  writing  our  good  books. 

The  book  has  some  truth  in  it,  I  believe : 

And  truth  outlives  pain,  as  the  soul  does  life. 

I  know  we  talk  our  Phaedons  ^o  the  end 

Through  all  the  dismal  faces  that  we  make, 

O'er-wrinkled  with  dishonoring  agon}- 

From  an}'  mortal  drug.     I  have  written  truth, 

And  I  a  woman ;  feebly,  partially, 

Inaptly  in  presentation,  Romneyll  add, 

Because  a  woman.     For  the  truth  itself, 

That's  neither  man's  nor  woman's,  l)ut  just  God's: 

None  else  has  reason  to  be  proud  of  truth  ; 

Himself  will  see  it  sifted,  disenthralled. 

And  kept  upon  the  height  and  in  the  light. 

As  far  as,  and  no  farther  than  'tis  truth  ; 

For — now  He  has  left  off  callin,<>-  firmaments 

And  strata,  flowers  and  cieatures,  very  good — 

He  says  it  still  of  truth,  which  is  His  own. 

Truth,  so  far,  in  mj^  book  ; — the  truth  which  draws 

Through  all  things  upwards;  that  a  two-fold  world 

Must  go  to  a  perfect  cosmos.  \  Natural  things 

And  spiritual — who  separates  those  two 

In  arts,  in  morals,  or  the  social  drift. 

Tears  up  the  bond  of  nature  and  brings  death, 

I'aiuts  futile  pictures,  writes  unreal  verse. 

Leads  vulgar  days,  deals  Ignorantly  with  men, 

Is  wrong,  in  short,  at  all  points.     We  divide 

This  apple  of  life,  and  cut  it  through  tlic  pips — 

The  perfect  round  which  fitted  A'enus'  hand 

Has  perished  utterl}-  as  if  we  ate 

Both  halves.     Without  tlie  spiritual,  observe. 

The  natural's  impossible  ; — no  form. 

No  motion  !     Without  sensuous,  spiritual 

Is  inappreciable  ; — no  beauty  or  power  ! 

And  in  this  two-fold  sphere  the  twofold  man 

(And  still  the  artist  is  intensely  a  man) 

Holds  firmly  b}'  the  natural,  to  reach 

The  spiritual  beyond  it — fixes  still 

The  type  with  mortal  vision,  to  pierce  through, 

With  eyes  immortal,  to  the  antetype 


AURORA      LEI  OH. 


oOfl 


Some  call  the  ideal — better  called  the  real, 

And  certain  to  be  called  so  presently, 

When   things    shall    have  their  names.      Look  long 

enough 
On  any  peasant's  face  here,  coarse  and  lined, 
You'll  catch  Antinous  somewhere  in  that  clay, 
As  perfect-featured  as  he  yearns  at  Kome 
From  marble  pale  with  beauty  ;  then  persist, 
And,  if  your  a[)prehension's  competent, 
You'll  find  some  fairer  angel  at  his  back, 
As  much  exceeding  him,  as  he  the  boor, 
And  pushing  him  with  emp^u-eal  disdain 
Forever  out  of  sight.     A3%  Carrington 
Is  giad  of  such  a  creed  !  an  artist  must, 
Who  paints  a  tree,  a  leaf,  a  common  stone 
With  just  his  hand,  and  finds  it  suddenly'' 
A-piece  with  and  conterminous  to  his  soul. 
Why  else  do  these  things  move  him,  leaf,  or  stone? 
Tlie  bird's  not  moved,  that  pecks  at  a  spring-shout; 
Nor  yet  the  horse,  before  a  quarrj,  agraze : 
But  man,  the  two-fold  creature,  apprehends 
The  two-fold  manner,  in  and  outwardly. 
And  nothing  in  the  world  comes  single  to  him, 
A  mere  itself — cup,  column,  or  candlestick. 
All  patterns  of  what  shall  be  in  the  Mount; 
The  whole  temporal  show  related  ro3'ally, 
And  built  up  to  eterne  significance 
Through  the  open  arms  of  God.     "  There's  nothing 

great 
Nor  small,"  has  said  a  poet  of  our  day, 
(Whose  voice  will  ring  bej^ond  tli(-  curfew  of  eve 
And  not  be  thrown  out  b}'  the  matin's  bell) 
And  truly,  I  reiterate,  .  .  nothing's  small! 
No  lily-muffled  hum  of  a  summer-bee, 
]>ut  finds  some  coupling  with  the  spinning  stars  ; 
No  pebble  at  your  loot,  but  proves  a  sphere  ; 
No  chaffinch,  l.ut  implies  the  cherubim  : 
And — glancing  on  my  ovvn  thin,  veined  wrist — 
In  such  a  little  tremor  of  the  blood 
The  whole  strong  clamor  of  a  vehement  soul 
Doth    utter   itself  distinct.      Earth's    crammed    witU 

heaven. 
And  every  common  bush  afire  with  God  : 
But  only  he  who  sees  takes  off  his  shoes, 
The  rest  sit  round  it,  and  pluck  blackberries, 


STO  AURORA     LEIQH. 

And  daub  their  natural  faces  unawai'e 
More  and  more,  from  the  first  similitude. 

Truth  so  far,  in  my  book  !  a  truth  which  draws 
From  all  things  upwards.     I,  Aurora,  still 
Have  felt  it  hound  me  through  the  wastes  of  life 
As  Jove  did  lo :  and,  until  that  Hand 
Shall  overtake  me  wlioUy,  and,  on  my  head, 
La3'  down  its  large  unfluctuating  peace. 
The  feverish  gad-fly  pricks  me  up  and  down. 
It  must  be.     Art's  the  witness  of  what  Is 
Behind  this  show.     If  this  world's  show  were  all, 
Then  imitation  would  be  all  in  Art; 
riiere,  Jove's  hand  gripes  us  ! — For  we  stand  here,  we, 
[f  genuine  artists,  witnessing  for  God's 
Complete,  consummate,  undivided  work  : 
. — That  not  a  natural  flower  can  grow  on  earth. 
Without  a  flower  upon  the  spiritual  side. 
Substantial,  archetypal,  all  a-glow 
With  blossoming  causes — not  so  far  awaj', 
That  we,  whose  spirit-sense  is  somewhat  cleared. 
May  not  catch  something  of  the  bloom  and  breath 
Too  vaguely  apprehended,  though  indeed 
Still  apprehended,  consciously  or  not, 
And  still  transferred  to  picture,  music,  verse, 
'       For  thrilling  audient  and  beholding  souls 

B}^  sif ns  and  touches  which  are  known  to  souls — 
\     How  known,  they  know  not — why,  they  cannot  find, 
\    So  straight  call  out  on  genius,  say,  "  A  man 
\  Produced  this" — when  much  rather  they  should  say, 
\'  'Tis  insight,  and  he  saw  this." 

Thus  is  Art 
Self-magnified  in  magnifying  a  truth 
Which,  fully  recognized,  would  change  the  world 
And  shift  its  morals.     If  a  man  could  feel, 
Not  one  da^',  in  the  artist's  ecstasy. 
But  every  da}',  feast,  fast,  or  working-day, 
The  spiritual  significan(!e  burn  through 
The  hieroglyphic  of  material  shows, 
Henceforward  he  would  paint  the  globe  with  wings, 
And  reverence  fish  and  fowl,  the  bull,  the  tree, 
And  even  his  very  body  as  a  man^ 
Which  now  he  counts  so  vile,  that  all  the  towns 
Make  ofl'al  of  their  daughters  for  it^  use 
On  summer-nights,  when  God  is  sad  in  heaven 
To  think  what  goes  on  in  his  recreant  world 


AU  110  R  A      LEIGH  371 

He  made  quite  other;  while  that  moou  he  made 
To  shine  there,  at  the  first  love's  covenant, 
Shines  still,  convictive  as  a  luarriase-rino: 
Before  adulterous  eyes. 

How  sure  it  is, 
That,  if  we  say  a  true  word,  instantly 
We  feel  'tis  God's,  not  ours,  and  pass  it  on 
As  bread  at  sacrament,  we  taste  and  pass 
Kor  handle  for  a  moment,  as  indeed 
We  dared  to  set  up  any  claim  to  such ! 
And  I — my  poem  ; — let  my  readers  talk  ; 
I'm  closer  to  it — I  can  speak  as  well : 
I'll  say,  with  Romney,  that  the  book  is  weak, 
The  range  uneven,  the  points  of  sight  obscure, 
The  music  interrupted. 

Let  us  go. 
The  end  of  woman  (or  of  man,  1  think) 
Is  not  a  book.     Alas,  the  best  of  books 
Is  but  a  word  in  Art,  which  soon  grows  crair.^ed 
Stiff,  dubious-statured  with  the  weight  of  yi^iivs, 
And  drops  an  accent  or  digamma  down 
Some  crann}'  of  unfathomable  time. 
Beyond  the  critic's  reaching.     Art  itself, 
We've  called  the  higher  life,  still  must  feel  the  soul 
Live  past  it.     For  more's  felt  than  is  perceived, 
And  more's  perceived  than  can  be  interpreted, 
And  Love  strikes  higher  with  his  lambent  flame 
Than  Art  can  pile  the  faggots. 

Is  it  so  ? 
When  Jove's  hand  meets  us  with  composing  touch, 
And  when,  at  last,  we  are  hushed  and  satisfied — 
Then,  lo  does  not  call  it  truth,  but  love? 
W^ell,  well !   my  father  was  an  Englishman  : 
My  mother's  blood  in  me  is  not  so  strong 
That  I  should  bear  this  stress  of  Tuscan  noon 
And  keep  m}'  wits.     The  town,  there,  seems  to  seethe 
In  this  Medoean  boil-pot  of  the  sun. 
And  all  the  patient  hills  are  bubbling  round 
As  if  a  prick  would  leave  them  flat.     Does  heaven 
Keep  far  off,  not  to  set  us  in  a  blaze  ? 
Xot  so — let  drag  your  fiery  fringes,  heaven, 
And  burn  us  up  to  quiet!     Ah,  we  know 
Too  much  here,  not  to  know  what's  best  for  peace ; 
We  have  too  much  light  here,  not  to  want  more  fire 
To  purify  and  end  us.     We  talk,  talk. 
Conclude  upon  divine  philosophies, 


^72  AURORA     LEIGH. 

And  get  the  thanks  of  men  for  hopeful  books; 
^Vhereat  we  take  our  own  life  up,  and  .  ,  pshaw  1 
Unless  we  piece  it  with  another's  life, 
(A  3'ard  of  silk  to  carry  out  our  lawn) 
\   As  well  suppose  m}-  little  handkerchief 
Would  cover  Samminiato,  church  and  all, 
If  out  1  threw  it  past  the  cypresses, 
As,  in  this  ragged,  narrow  life  of  mine, 
Contain  my  own  conclusions. 

But  at  least 
We'll  shut  up  the  persiani,  and  sit  down. 
And  when  my  head's  done  aching,  in  the  cool, 
Write  just  a  word  to  Kate  and  Carrington. 
May  jo^-  be  with  them !  she  has  chosen  well, 
And  he  not  ill. 

I  should  be  glad,  I  think. 
Except  for  Roraney.     Had  he  married  Kate, 
I  surel}',  surel^',  should  be  ver^'  glad. 
This  Florence  sits  upon  me  easily. 
With  native  air  and  tongue.     My  graves  are  calm. 
And  do  not  too  much  hurt  me.     Marian's  good. 
Gentle  and  loving — lets  me  hold  the  child. 
Or  drags  him  up  the  hills  to  find  me  flowers 
And  fill  those  vases,  ere  I'm  quite  awake — 
The  grandiose  red  tulips,  which  grow  wild, 
,..0r  else  mp  purple  lilies,  Dante  blew 
"^     To  a  large'r  bubble  with  his  prophet-breath 
^    Or  one  of  those  tall  flowering  reeds  which  stand 
In  Arno  like  a  sheaf  of  sceptres,  left 
By  some  remote  dynasty  of  dead  gods, 
To  suck  the  stream  for  ages  and  get  green. 
And  blossom  wheresoe'er  a  hand  divine 
Had  warmed  the  place  with  Ichor.     Such  I've  found 
At  early  morning,  laid  across  my  bed, 
A.nd  woke  up  pelted  with  a  childish  laugh 
Which  even  Marian's  low  precipitous  "hush" 
Had  vainlj"  interposed  to  put  away — 
While  I,  with  shut  e^'es,  smile  and  motion  for 
The  dew}^  kiss  that's  very  sure  to  come 
From  mouth  and  cheeks,  the  whole   child's  face   at 

once 
Dissolved  on  mine — as  if  a  nosegay  burst 
Its  string  with  the  weight  of  roses  overblown, 
And  dropt  upon  me.     Surely  I  should  be  glad. 
The  little  creature  almost  loves  me  novv, 
And  calls  my  name  .  .  "  Alola,"  stripping  oflT 


A  U  R  0  R  A     L  E  I  O  H ,  3  7;} 

The  ra  /ike  thorns,  to  make  it  smooth  chough 
'J'o  take  between  his  daint}',  milk-fed  lips 
God  love  him  !    I  should  eertainl}-  be  glad, 
Except,  God  help  me,  that  I'n:  sorrowful, 
Because  of  Komne}'. 

llomne}',  Romnc}^ !     AVell, 
This  grows  absurd  ! — too  like  a  tune  that  runs 
1'  tjie  head,  and  forces  all  things  in  the  world, 
AVind,  rain,  the  creaking  gnat  or  stuttering  fly, 
To  sing  itself  and  vex  you  ; — yet  perhaps 
A  paltry  tune  you  never  fairly  liked, 
Some  "  I'd  be  a  butterfly,"  or  "  C'est  I'amour  :" 
We're  made  so — not  such  tyrants  to  ourselves, 
We  are  not  slaves  to  nature.     Some  of  us 
Are  turned,  too,  overmuch  like  some  poor  verse 
AVith  a  trick  of  ritournelle :  the  same  thing  goes 
And  comes  back  ever. 

Yincent  Carrington 
Is  "  sorry,"  and  I'm  sorry  ;  but  AeVs  strong 
To  mount  from  sorrow  to  his  heaven  of  love, 
And  when  he  sa^ys  at  moments,  "Poor,  poor  Leigh," 
Who'll  never  call  his  own,  so  true  a  heart. 
So  fair  a  face  even — he  must  quickly  lose 
The  pain  of  pity  in  the  blush  he  has  made 
l>y  his  very  pit^'ing  eyes.     The  snow,  for  him, 
lias  fallen  in  May,  and  finds  the  whole  earth  warm, 
And  melts  at  the  first  touch  of  the  green  grass. 
13ut  Romne3' — he  has  chosen,  after  all. 
I  think  he  had  as  excellent  a  sun 
To  see  by,  as  most  others,  and  perhaps 
Has  scarce  seen  really  worse  than  some  of  us, 
AVhen  all's  said.     Let  him  pass.     I'm  not  too  much 
A  woman,  not  to  be  a  man  for  once. 
And  bury  all  my  Dead  like  Alaric, 
Depositing  the  treasures  of  my  soul 
In  this  drained  water-course,  and,  letting  flow 
The  river  of  life  again,  with  commerce-ships 
And  pleasure-barges,  full  of  silks  and  songs. 
Blow  winds,  and  help  us. 

Ah,  we  mock  ourselves 
AVith  talking  of  the  winds  !  perhaps  as  much 
Witli  other  resolutions.     How  it  weighs. 
This  hot,  sick  air!  and  how  I  covet  here 
The  Dead's  provision  on  the  river's  couch. 
With  silver  curtains  drawn  on  tinkling  rings  I 
Or  else  their  rest  in  quiet  crypts — laid  by 


874  AURORA     LEIGH. 

From  heut  and  noise ! — from  those  eicale,  say, 
And  this  more  A'exing  heart-beat. 

So  it  is  : 
We  covet  for  the  soul,  the  body's  i^art, 
To  die  and  rot.     Even  so,  Aurora,  ends 
Our  aspiration,  wlio  bespolve  our  place 
So  far  in  the  east.     The  occidental  flats 
Had  fed  us  fatter,  tlierefore  ?  we  have  climbed 
Where  herbage  ends  ?   we  want  the  beast's  i)art  now 
And  tire  of  the  angel's  ? — Men  define  a  man, 
The  creature  wlio  stands  front- ward  to  the  stars, 
The  creature  who  looks  inward  to  himself, 
The  tool-wright,  laughing  creature.     'Tis  enough  : 
We'll  say  instead,  the  inconsequent  creature,  man- 
For  that's  his  specialty'.     What  creature  else 
Conceives  the  circle,  and  then  walks  the  square? 
Loves  things  proved  bad,  and  leaves  a  thing  proved 

good  ? 
You  think  the  bee  makes  honey  half  a  year, 
To  loathe  the  comb  in  winter,  and  desire, 
The  little  ant's  food  rather?     But  a  man — 
Note  men  ! — they  are  but  women  after  all. 
As  women  are  but  Auroras  ! — there  are  men 
Born  tender,  apt  to  pale  at  a  trodden  worm, 
Who  paint  for  pastime,  in  their  favorite  dream, 
Spruce  auto-vestments  flowered  with  crocus-flames 
There  are,  too,  who  believe  in  hell,  and  lie : 
There  are,  who  waste  their  souls  in  working  out 
Life's  problem  on  these  sands  betwixt  two  tides, 
And  end — 'Now  give  us  the  beast's  part,  in  death." 

''Alas,  long-suffering  and  most  patient  God, 
Thou  need'st  be  surelier  God  to  bear  with  us 

^Than  even  to  have  made  us  !  thou,  aspire,  aspire 
From  henceforth  for  me !  thou  who  hast,  thj'self. 
Endured  this  fieshhood,  knowing  how,  as  a  soaked 
And  sucking  vesture,  it  would  drag  us  down 
And  choke  us  in  the  melancholy  Deep, 
Sustain  me,  that,  with  thee,  I  walk  these  waves. 
Resisting! — breathe  me  upward,  thou  for  me 
Aspiring,  who  art  the  way,  the  truth,  the  life — 
That  no  truth  henceforth  seem  indifferent. 
No  way  to  truth  laborious,  and  no  "life, 

,Not  even  this  life  I  live,  intolerable  ! 
The  da5'3  went  b}'.     I  took  up  the  old  dayB 
With  all  their  Tuscan  pleasures,  worn  and  spoiled— 


~:x  -n  •> 


AURORA     LEIGH.  37.^ 

Like  sonic  lost  book  we  dropt  in  the  long  grass 

On  such  a  happy  summer-afternoon 

When  last  we  read  it  with  a  loving  friend, 

And  find  in  autumn,  when  the  friend  is  gone, 

The  grass  cut  short,  the  weather  changed,  too  late, 

A  lid  stare  at,  as  at  something  wonderful 

For  sorrow — thinking  how  two  hands,  before, 

Had  lield  up  what  is  left  to  only  one. 

And  how  we  smiled  when  such  a  vehement  nail 

Impressed  the  tin}-  dint  here,  which  presents 

Q'his  verse  in  fire  forever  !     Tenderly 

And  mournfully  I  lived.     I  knew  the  birds 

And  insects — which  look  fathered  by  the  flowers 

And  emulous  of  their  hues:  I  recognized 

The  moths,  Avith  that  great  overpoise  of  wings 

Which  makes  a  m^'stery  of  them  how  at  all 

They  can  stop  flying:  butterflies,  that  bear 

Upon  their  blue  wings  such  red  embers  round, 

They  seem  to  scorch  the  blue  air  into  holes 

Kach  flight  they  take:  and  fire-flics,  that  suspire 

In  short  soft  lapses  of  transported  flame 

Across  the  tingling  Dark,  while  overhead 

The  constant  and  inviolable  stars 

Outburn  those  lights-of-love  :  melodious  owls, 

(If  music  liad  but  one  note  and  was  sad, 

'Twould  sound  just  so)  and  all  the  silent  swirl 

Of  bats,  that  seem  to  follow  in  the  air 

Some  grand  circumference  of  a  shadowy  dome 

To  which  we  are  blind  :  and  then,  the  nightingales, 

WTiicli  pluck  our  heart  across  a  garden-wall, 

(When  walkinj  in  the^own)  and  cany  it 

So  high  into  the  bowery  almond-trees. 

We  tremble  and  are  afraid,  and  feel  as  if 

The  golden  flood  of  moonlight  unaware 

Dissolved  the  pillars  of  the  steady  earth 

And  made  it  less  substantial.     And  I  knew 

The  harmless  opal  snakes,  and  large-mouthed  frogs, 

(Those  noisy  vauntersof  their  shallow  streams) 

And  lizards,  the  green  lightnings  of  the  wall. 

Which,  if  you  sit  down  still,  nor  sigh  too  loud, 

^Vill  flatter  you  and  take  3'ou  for  a  stone. 

And  flash  fainiliarl}-  about  your  feet 

With  such  prodigious  eyes  in  such  small  heads  ! — 

I  knew  them   though    they  had    somewhat  dwindleof 

from 
My  childish  imagery — and  kept  in  mind 


376  AURORA      LEIGH. 

IIow  last  I  sat  among  them  equall}', 

In  fellowship  and  mateship,  as  a  child 

Will  bear  him  still  toward  insect,  beast,  and  bii'd, 

Before  the  Adam  in  him  has  foregone 

All  privilege  of  Eden — making  friends 

And  talk,  with  such  a  bird  or  such  a  goat, 

And  bu^'ing  many  a  two-inch-wide  rush-cage 

To  let  out  the  caged  cricket  on  a  tree, 

Sa^'ing.  "  Oh,  my  dear  grillino,  were  you  cramped  f 

And  are  you  happy  with  the  ilex-leaves  ? 

And  do  you  love  me  who  have  let  j'ou  go  ? 

Say  yes  in  singing,  and  I'll  understand." 

Biit  now  the  creatures  all  seemed  farther  off, 

No  longer  mine,  nor  like  me  ;  only  there, 

A  gulf  between  us.     I  could  yearn  indeed. 

Like  other  rich  men,  for  a  drop  of  dew 

To  cool  this  heat — a  drop  of  the  eaulj'  dew, 

The  irrecoverable  child-innocence 

(Before  the  heart  took  fire  and  withered  life) 

When  childhood  might  pair  equally  with  birds  ; 

But  now  .  .  the  birds  were  grown  too  proud  for  ua 

Alas,  tlie  vei'y  sun  forbids  the  dew. 

And  I,  I  had  come  back  to  an  empty  nest, 

Which  every  bird's  too  wise  for.     How  I  heard 

My  father's  step  on  that  deserted  ground, 

His  voice  along  that  silence,  as  he  told 

The  names  of  bird  and  insect,  tree  and  flower. 

And  all  the  presentations  of  the  stars 

Across  Yaldarno,  interposing  still 

"My  child,"   "my  child."      AYhen  fathers  sav   "my 

child,"  • 

'Tis  easier  to  conceive  the  universe, 
And  life's  transitions  down  the  steps  of  law. 

I  rode  once  to  the  little  mountain-house 

As  fast  as  if  to  find  my  father  there, 

I^ut,  Avhen  in  sight  oft,  within  fifty  yards, 

I  dropped  my  horse's  bridal  on  his  neck 

And  paused  upon  his  flank.     The  house's  front 

Was  cased  with  lingots  of  ripe  Indian  corn 

In  tesselated  order,  and  device 

Of  golden  patterns  :  not  a  stone  of  wall 

Uncovered — not  an  inch  of  room  to  grow 

A  vine  leaf.     The  old  porch  had  disappeared; 

And,  in  the  open  doorway,  sat  a  girl 


AUROUA     LEIGH.  0? 

At  i)lailuig  straws — her  black  hair  stra'ncd  away 
To  a  scarlet  kerchief  caught  beneath  h.u'  chin 
In  Tuscan  fashion — her  full  ebon  eyes, 
AVliich  looked  too  lieav}'  to  be  lifted  so, 
Still  dropt  and  lifted  toward  the  mulberry-tree 
On  which  the  lads  were  busy  with  their  staves 
In  shout  and  laughter,  stripping-  all  the  boughs 
As  bare  as  winter,  of  those  summer  leaves 
M}'  father  had  not  changed  for  all  the  silk 
In  which  the  ugl}'  silkworms  hide  themselves. 
p]nough.     M3'  horse  recoiled  before  mj  heart — 
I  turned  the  rein  abruptly.     Back  we  went 
As  fast,  to  Florence. 

That  was  trial  enough 
Of  graves.     I  would  not  visit,  if  I  could, 
My  father's,  or  my  mother's  any  more. 
To  see  if  stone-cutter  or  lichen  beat 
So  early  in  the  race,  or  throw  my  flowers, 
Which  could  not  out-smell  heaven,  or  sweeten  earth. 
They  live  too  far  above,  that  I  should  look 
So  lar  below  to  find  them  ;  let  me  think 
That  rather  the^-  are  visiting  my  grave, 
This  life  here,  (undeveloped  yet  to  life) 
And  that  they  drop  upon  me,  now  and  then, 
For  token  or  for  solace,  some  small  Aveed 
Least  odorous  of  the  growths  of  paradise. 
To  spare  such  pungent  scents  as  kill  with  J03'. 
M3'  old  Assunta,  too,  was  dead,  was  dead — 
O  land  of  all  men's  past !  for  me  alone, 
It  would  not  mix  its   tenses.      1  was  past, 
It  seemed,  like  others — only  not  in  heaven. 
And,  many  a  Tuscan  "eve,  I  wandered  down 
The  cypress  alley,  like  a  restless  ghost 
That  tries  its  feeble  ineffectual  breath 
Upon  its  own  charred  funeral-brands  put  out 
Too  soon — where,  black  and  stiff,  stood  up  the  trees 
Against  the  broad  vermilion  of  the  skies. 
Such  skies ! — all  cloud  abolished  in  a  sweep 
Of  God's  skirt,  with  a  dazzle  to  ghosts  and  men, 
As  down  I  went,  saluting  on  the  bridge 
The  hem  of  such,  before  'twas  caught  away 
Be\'ond  the  peaks  of  Lucca.     Underneath, 
The  river,  just  escaping  from  the  weight 
Of  that  intolerable  glory,  ran 
In  acquiescent  shadow  murmurously: 
And  up,  beside  it,  streamed  the  festa-folk 


878  AURORA      LEIGH. 

With  fellow-murmurs  from  tlieir  feet  and  fans, 

(W.th  is.nmo  and  ino  and  sweet  poise 

Of  vowels  in  their  pleasant  scandalous  talk) 

Returning  from  the  grand-duke's  dairy-farm 

Before  the  trees  grew  dangerous  at  eight, 

(For,  "trust  no  tree  by  moonlight,"  Tuscans  say) 

To  eat  their  ice  at  Uoni's  tenderly — 

Each  lovely  lady  close  to  a  cavalier 

AVho  holds  her  dear  fan  while  she  feeds  her  smile 

On  meditative  spoonfuls  of  vanille, 

He  breathing  hot  protesting  vows  of  love, 

Enough  to  thaw  her  creaui.  and  scorch  his  beard. 

'Twas  little  matter.     I  could  pass  them  by 

Indifferently,  not  fearing  to  be  known. 

No  danger  of  being  wrecked  upon  a  friend, 

And  forced  to  take  an  iceberg  for  an  isle  1 

The  very  English,  here,  must  w'ait  to  learn  \ 

To  hang  the  cobweb  of  their  gossip  out  \ 

And  catch  a  Qy.     I'm  hap[)y.     It's  sublime,^/ 

This  perfect  solitude  of  f(jreign  lands  ! 

To  be,  as  if  you  had  not  been  till  then, 

And  were  then,  simply  that  you  chose  to  be; 

To  spring  up,  not  be  brought  forth  from  the  groundj 

Like  grassli'ippers  at  Athens,  and  skip  thrice 

Before  a  woman  makes  a  pounce  on  you 

And  plants  you  in  her  hair  ! — possess  yourself, 

A  new  world  all  alive  with  creatures  new, 

Xew  sun,  new  moon,  new  flowers,  new  people — ah, 

And  be  possessed  by  none  of  them  !  no  right 

In  one,  to  call  your  name,  enquire  your  where. 

Or  what  you  think  of  Mister  Some-one's  book. 

Or  Mister  Other's  marriage,  or  decease, 

Or  how's  the  headache  which  you  had  last  week, 

Or  why  you  look  so  pale  still,  since  its  gone  ? 

— Such  most  surprising  riddance  of  one's  life 

Comes  next  one's  death  ;  it's  disembodiment 

"Without  the  pang.      I  marvel,  people  choose 

To  stand  stock  still  like  fakirs,  till  the  moss 

Grows  on  them,  and  they  cry  out,  self-admired, 

•'  How  verdant  and  how  virtuous  !"     Well,  I'm  glad 

Or  should  be,  if  grown  foreign  to  ra3'self 

As  surely  as  to  others. 

Musing  so, 
I  walk  the  narrow  unrecognising  streets, 
W  here  manj^  a  palace-front  peers  gloomily 
Through  stony  vizors  iron-barred,  (prepared 


AURORA     LEIGH.  3V9 

Alike,  should  foe  or  lovci-  pass  that  way, 

For  guest  or  victim)  and  came  wandering  out 

Upon  the  churches  with  mild  open  doors 

And  plaintive  wail  of  vespers,  wiiere  a  few, 

Those  chiefly  women,  sprinkled  round  in  blots 

Uj)on  the  dusk}^  pavement,  knelt  and  prayed 

Toward  the  altar's  silver  glor3^     Oft  a  ray 

(I  liked  to  sit  and  watch)  would  tremble  out, 

Just  touch  some  face  more  lifted,  more  in  need. 

Of  course  a  woman's — while  1  dreamed  a  tale 

To  fit  its  fortunes.     There  was  one  who  looked 

As  if  the  earth  had  suddenly  grown  too  large 

For  such  a  little  humpbacked  thing  as  she ; 

The  pitiful  black  kerchief  round  her  neck 

Sole  proof  she  had  iuid  a  mother.     One,  again, 

Looked  sick  for  love — seemed  pra^'ing  some  soft  saint 

To  put  more  virtue  in  the  new  fine  scarf 

Slie  spent  a  fortnight's  meals  on,  yesterday, 

That  cruel  Gigi  might  return  his  eyes 

From  Giuliana.      Tiiere  Avas  one,  so  old, 

So  old,  to  kneel  grevv  easier  than  to  stand — 

So  solitary,  she  accepts  at  last 

Our  Lady  for  her  gossip,  and  frets  on 

Aaraiiist  the  sinful  world  which  goes  its  rounds 

In  marrying  and  being  married,  just  the  same 

As  when  'twas  almost  good  and  had  the  right, 

(tier  Gian  alive,  and  she  herself  eighteen). 

And  yet,  now  even,  if  Madonna  willed. 

She'd  win  a  tern  in  Thursday's  lottery. 

And  better  all  things.     Did  she  dream  for  nought, 

That,  boiling  cabbage  for  the  fast-day's  soup. 

It  smelt  like  blessed  entrails  ?  such  a  dream 

For  nought  ?  w^ould  sweetest  Marv  cheat  her  so 

And  lose  that  certain  candle,  straight  and  white 

As  any  fair  grand-duchess  in  her  teens. 

Which  otherwise  should  flare  here  in  a  week  ? 

Benigna  sis,  thou  beauteous  Queen  of  Heaven  ! 

I  sat  thLMc  musing  and  imagining 
Such  utterance  from  such  faces:  poor  blind  souls 
That  writhed  toward  heaven  along  the  devil's  trail — 
Who  knows,  I  thought,  but  He  may  stretch  his  hand 
And  pick  them  up  ?   'tis  written  in  the  Book, 
He  heareth  the  young  ravens  when  the}'  cry ; 
And  yet  they  cr}'  for  carrion. — Oh  m}'  God — 
And  we.  who  make  excuses  for  the  rest, 


380  AURORA      LEIGH. 

We  do  it  in  our  measure.     Then  I  knelt,  . 

And  dropped  m}'  head  upon  the  pavement  too, 

And  pra3"ed,  since  I  was  foolish  in  desire 

Like  otlier  creatures,  craving  ofFal-food, 

That  He  would  stop  his  ears  to  what  I  said, 

And  onl}'  listen  to  the  run  and  beat 

Of  this  poor,  passionate,  helpless  blood — ■ 

And  thee 
I  \t.y  and  spoke  not.     But  He  heard  in  heaven. 
So  many  Tuscan  evenings  passed  the  same) 
I  could  not  lose  a  sunset  on  the  bridge, 
And  would  not  miss  a  vigil  in  the  church, 
And  liked  to  mingle  with  the  outdoor  crowd 
So  strange  and  gay  and  ignorant  of  my  face, 
For  men  3'ou  know  not,  are  as  good  as  trees. 
And  on\j  once,  at  the  Santissima, 
I  almost  chanced  upon  a  man  I  knew,  . 
Sir  Blaise  Delorme.     He  saw  me  certainl3^. 
And  somewhat  hurried,  as  he  crossed  himself. 
The  smoothness  of  the  action — then  half  bowed. 
But  only  half,  and  mereh'  to  my  shade, 
1  slipped  so  quick  behind  the  porph3'ry  plinth, 
And  left  him  dubious  if  'twas  really  1, 
Or  peradventure  Satan's  usual  trick 
To  keep  a  mounting  saint  uncanonized. 
But  I  was  safe  for  that  time,  and  he  too ; 
The  argent  angels  in  the  altar-flare 
Absorbed  his  soul  next  moment.     The  good  man ' 
In  England  w-e  were  scarce  acquaintances, 
That  here  in  Florence  he  should  keep  m^^  thought 
Be3'ond  the  image  on  his  e3'e,  which  came 
And  went;  and  3'et  his  thought  disturbed  m3'  life: 
For,  after  that,  1  often  sat  at  home 
On  evenings,  watching  how  the3'  fined  themselves 
With  gradual  conscience  to  a  perfect  night. 
Until  a  moon,  diminished  to  a  curve, 
La3'  out  there,  like  a  sickle  for  His  hand 
Who  cometh  down  at  last  to  reap  the  earth. 
At  such  times,  ended  seemed  m3'  trade  of  verse ; 
I  feared  to  jingle  bells  upon  m3'  robe 
Before  the  four-faced  silent  cherubim: 
With  God  so  near  me,  could  I  sing  of  God  ? 
I  did  not  write,  nor  read,  nor  even  think, 
But  sat  absorbed  amid  the  quici».oning  glooms, 
Most  like  some  passive  broken  lump  of  salt 
Dropt  in  b3'  chance  to  a  bowl  of  oenomel, 


AURORA     LEIOH.  3S1 


To  spoil  the  <irink  a  little,  and  lose  itself, 
Dissolving  slowly,  slowly,  until  lost. 


EIGHTH  BOOK. 

One  eve  it  ha()i)ened  when  I  sat  alone, 
Alone  upon  the  terrace  of  ray  tower, 
A  book  upon  my  knees,  to  counterfeit 
Tlie  reading  that  I  never  read  at  all. 
While  Marian,  in  tlie  garden  down  below, 
Knelt  by  the  fountain  (I  could  just  hear  thrill 
The  drowsy  silence  of  the  exhausted  day) 
And  peeled  a  new  fig  from  that  purple  heap 
In  the  grass  beside  her — turning  out  the  red 
To  fee<l  her  eager  child,  who  sucked  at  it 
/  With  vehement  lips  across  a  gap  of  air    ' 
As  he  stood  opposite,  fare  anti  curls  a-llame 
With  that  last  sun-ray,  crying,  "  give  me,  give," 
And  stamping  with  imperious  bab3'-fcet, 
(We're  all  born  princes) — something  startled  me 
The  laugh  of  sad  and  innocent  souls,  that  breaks 
Abruptly,  as  if  frightened  at  itself; 
'Twas  Marian  laughed.     I  saw  her  glance  above 
In  sudden  shame  that  I  should  hear  her  laugh, 
And  straightway  dropped  my  eyes  upon  my  book, 
And  knew,  the  first  time,  'twas  Boccacio's  tales, 
The  Falcon's — of  the  lover  who  for  love 
Destroyed  the  best  that  loved  him.     Some  of  us 
Do  it  still,  and  then  we  sit  and  laugh  no  more. 
Laugh  you,  sweet  Marian  !  j'ou've  the  light  to   laugb^ 
Since  God  himself  is  for  you,  and  a  child  ! 
For  me  there's  somewhat  less — and  so  I  sigh. 

The  heavens  were  making  room  to  hold  the  night, 

The  sevenfold  heavens  unfolding  all  their  gates 

To  let  the  stais  out  slowly  (prophesied 

In  close-approaching  advent,  not  discerned). 

While  still  the  cue-owls  from  the  cypresses 

Of  the  Poggio  called  and.  counted  every  pulse 

Of  the  skyey  palpitation.     Gradually 

The  purple  and  transparent  shadows  slow 

Had  filled  up  the  whole  valley  to  the  brim. 

And  fio(Kled  all  the  city,  which  you  saw 

As  some  drowned  city  in  some  enchanted  sea. 


^82  AURORA      LEIGH. 

Cut  off  from  nature — drawing  j'on  who  gaze, 

With  passsionate  desire,  to  leap  and  plunge, 

And  find  a  sea-king  with  a  voice  of  waves, 

And  treacherous  soft  eyes,  and  slippery  locks 

You  cannot  kiss  but  you  shall  bring  awa}' 

Their  salt  upon  3'our  lips.     The  duomo-bell 

Strikes  ten,  as  if  it  struck  ten  fathoms  down. 

So  deep;  and  fifty  churches  answer  it 

The  same,  with  fifty  various  instances. 

Some  gaslights  tremble  along  squares  and  streets  ; 

The  Pitti's  palace-front  is  drawn  in  fire  : 

And,  past  the  quays,  Marian  Novella's  Place, 

In  which  the  mystic  obelisks  stand  up 

Triangular,  pyramidal,  each  based 

On  a  single  trine  of  brazen  tortoises. 

To  guard  that  fair  church,  Buonarrot's  Bride, 

That  stares  out  from  her  large  l)lind  dial-eyes. 

Her  quadrant  and  armillar}'  dials,  black 

With  rhythms  of  man}^  suns  and  moons,  in  vain 

Enquiry  for  so  rich  a  soul  as  his — 

Methinks  I  have  plunged,  I  see  it  all  so  clear  .  .  . 

And,  oh  my  heart,  .  .  .  the  sea-king  I 

In  ray  ears 
The  sound  of  waters.     There  he  stood,  my  king  I 

I  felt  him,  rather  than  beheld  him.     Up 

I  rose,  as  if  he  were  my  king  indeed. 

And  then  sat  down,  in  trouble  at  myself, 

And  struggling  for  m}'  woman's  empery. 

'Tis  pitiful ;  but  women  are  so  made: 

We'll  die  for  you,  perhaps — 'tis  probable; 

But  we'll  not  spare  you  an  inch  of  our  full  height: 

We'll  have  our  whole  just  stature —  five  feet  four, 

Though  laid  out  in  our  cofiins:  pitiful ! 

• — "You,  llomney  ! Lady  Waldemar  is  here?" 

Tie  answered  in  a  voice  which  was  not  his, 

"  I  have  her  letter ;  you  shall  read  it  soon : 

But  first,  I  must  be  heard  a  little,  I, 

Who  have  waited  long  and  travelled  far  for  that, 

Although  you  thought  to  have  shut  a  tedious  book 

And  farewell.     Ah,  3'ou  dog-eared  such  a  page, 

And  here  you  find  me." 

Did  he  touch  ray  band. 
Or  but  my  sleeve  ?     I  trembled,  hand  and  foot — 


AURORA     LEIGH.  383 

He  must  have  touched  me. — "  Will  j'Oii  sit?"  I  asked. 

And  motioned  to  a  chair  ;  but  down  he  sat, 

A  little  slowl^',  as  a  man  in  doubt, 

Upon  the  couch  beside  me — couch  and  chair 

Being  wheeled  upon  the  terrace, 

"You  are  come, 
My  cousin  Roniney  ? — this  is  wonderful. 
But  all  is  wonder  on  such  summer-nights  ; 
And  nothing  should  surprise  us  any  more, 
Who  see  that  miracle  of  stars.     Behold." 

I  signed  above,  where  all  the  stars  were  out, 
As  if  an  urgent  heat  had  started  there 
A  secret  writing  from  a  sombre  page, 
A  blank  last  moment,  crowded  suddenlj' 
With  liurr3ing  splendors. 

"  Then  you  do  not  know  " — 
lie  murmured. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  I  said,  "  I  know.  - 
I  had  the  news  from  Vincent  Carrington. 
And  yet  I  did  not  think  3'ou'd  leave  the  work 
In  England,  for  so  much  even — though,  of  course. 
You'll  make  a  work-day  of  your  holiday, 
And  turn  it  to  our  Tuscan  People's  use — 
Who  much  need  helping  since  the  Austrian  boar 
(So  bold  to  cross  the  Alp  by  Lombard}' 
And  dash  his  brute  front  una])aslied  against 
The  steep  snow-bosses  of  that  shield  of  God 
Who  soon  shall  rise  in  wrath  and  shake  it  clear) 
Came  hither  also — raking  up  our  vines 
And  Olive-gardens  with  his  tyrannous  tusks, 
And  rolling  on  our  maize  with  all  his  swine." 

"You  had  the  news  from  Yincent  Carrington," 
He  echoed — picking  up  the  phrase  beyond. 
As  if  he  knew  the  rest  was  merely  talk 
To  fill  a  gap  and  keep  out  a  strong  wind — 
"  You  had,  then,  Vincent's  personal  news  ?  " 

"  His  own," 
I  answered.     "  All  that  ruined  world 
Seems  crumbling  into  marriage.     Carrington 
Has  chosen  wisely." 

"  Do  you  take  it  so  ?  " 
He  cried,  "  and  is  it  possible  at  last  "  .  . 
He  paused  there — and  then,  inward  to  himself, 


384  AURORA     LEIGH. 

"  Too  much  at  last,  too  late !— yet  certainly"  .  . 
(And  theie  l»is  voice  swaj'ed  as  an  Alpine  plank 
Tbat  feels  a  passionate  torrent  underneath) 
"  The  knowledge,  if  I  had  known  it,  first  or  last, 
Had  never  changed  the  actual  case  for  me. 
And  best,  for  her,  at  this  time." 

Nay,  I  thought, 
He  loves  Kate  Ward,  it  seems,  now,  like  a  man. 
Because  he  has  married  Lady  Waldemar. 
Ah,  Vincent's  letter  said  how  Leigh  was  moved 
To  hear  that  Vincent  was  betrothed  to  Kate, 
With  what  cracked  pitchers  go  we  to  deep  wells 
In  this  world  !     Then  I  spoke — "I  did  not  think, 
My  cousin,  you  had  ever  known  Kate  Ward." 

"  In  fact  I  never  knew  her.     'Tis  enough 

That  A'incent  did,  before  he  chose  his  wife 

For  other  reasons  than  those  topaz  eyes 

I've  heard  of.     Not  to  undervalue  them, 

For  all  that.     One  takes  up  the  world  with  eyes." 

— Including  Romne}'  Leigh,  I  thought  again, 
Albeit  he  know's  them  oul}'  by  repute. 
How  vile  must  all  men  be,  since  Ae's  a  man. 

His  deep  pathetic  voice,  as  if  he  guessed 
I  did  not  surely  love  him,  took  the  word  ; 
"  You  never  got  a  letter  froin  Lord  Howe 
A  month  back,  dear  Aurora?" 

"  None,"  I  said. 

"  I  felt  it  was  so,"  he  replied :  "  Yet  strange  ! 

Sir  Blaise  Delorme  has  passed  through  Florence  ?" 

"Ay, 

By  chance  I  saw  him  in  Our  Lady's  church, 

(I  saw  him,  mark  3'ou,  but  he  saw  not  me) 

Clean-washed  in  holy-water  from  the  count 

Of  things  terrestrial — letters  and  the  rest; 

He  had  crossed  us  out  together  with  his  sins. 

Ay,  strange ;  but  onl3'  strange  that  good  Lord  Howe 

Preferred  him  to  the  post  because  of  pauls. 

For  me  I'm  sworn  never  to  trust  a  man — 

A-t  least  w'ith  letters." 


AURORA     LEIGH.  385 

"  There  were  facts  to  tell — 
To  smooth  with  63-6  and  accent.     Howe  supposed  .  . 
Well,  well,  no  matter  !  there  ^vas  dubious  need  ; 
You  heard  the  news  from  Vincent  Carrington. 
And  yet  perhaps  you  had  been  startled  less 
To  see  me,  dear  Aurora,  if  you  had  read 
That  letter." 

— Now  he  sets  me  down  as  vexed. 
I  tliink  I've  draped  myself  in  woman's  pride 
To  a  perfect  purpose.     Oh,  I'm  vexed,  it  seems  ! 
My  friend  Lord  Howe  deputes  his  friend  Sir  Blaise, 
To  break  as  softlj'  as  a  sparrow's  egg 
That  lets  a  bird  out  tenderly,  the  news 
Of  Komney's  marriage  to  a  certain  saint; 
To  smooth  with  eye  and  accent — indicate 
His  possible  presence.     Excellently  well 
You've  played  your  part,  my  Lady"  Waldemar, 
As  I've  played  mine. 

"  Dear  Romne}',"  I  began, 
"  You  did  not  use,  of  old,  to  be  so  like 
A  Greek  king  coming  from  a  taken  Tro}', 
'Twas  needful  that  precursors  spread  your  path  ' 
With  thiee-piled  carpets,  to  receive  your  foot 
And  dull  the  sound  oft.     For  myself,  be  sure, 
Although  it  frankly  ground  the  gravel  here, 
I  still  could  bear  it.     Yet  I'm  soiMy,  too, 
To  lose  this  famous  letter,  which  Sir  Blaise 
Has  twisted  to  a  lighter  absently 
To  fire  some  I10I3'  taper  with  :  Lord  Howe 
Writes  letters  good  for  nil  things  but  to  lose  ; 
And  many  a  flower  of  London  gossipry 
Has  dropt  wherever  such  a  stem  broke  off — 
Of  course  I  know  that,  lonely  among  my  vines. 
Where  nothing's  talked  of,  save  the  blight  again, 
And  no  more  Chianti  1     Still  the  letter's  use 

As  preparation Did  I  start  indeed  ? 

Last  night  I  started  at  a  cockchafer, 

And  shook  a  half-hour  after.     Have  you  learnt 

Xo  more  of  women,  'spite  of  privilege. 

Than  still  to  take  account  too  seriously 

Of  such  weak  flutterings?     Why,  we  like  it,  sir-— 

We  get  our  powers  and  our  effects  that  way. 

The  trees  stand  stiff  and  still  at  time  of  frost. 

If  no  wind  tears  them  ;  but,  let  summer  come, 

^Vhen  trees  are  happy— and  a  breath  avails 

To  set  them  trembling  through  a  million  lenves 


886  AURORA     LEIGH. 

In  luxury  of  emotion.     Something  less 
/     It  takes  to  move  a  woman  :  let  her  start 

And  shake  at  pleasure — nor  conclude  at  yours, 
\     The  winter's  bitter — but  the  summer's  green." 

He  answered,  "  Be  the  summer  ever  green 

With  you,  Aurora! — though  you  sweep  your  sex 

With  somewhat  bitter  gusts  from  where  you  live  . 

Above  them — whirling  downward  from  your  heights 

Your  very  own  pine-cones,  in  a  grand  disdain 

Of  the  lowland  burrs  with  which  you  scatter  them. 

So  high  and  cold  to  others  and  yourself, 

A  little  less  to  Romney,  were  unjust, 

And  thus,  I  would  not  have  you.     Let  it  pass  : 

I  feel  content,  so.     You  can  bear  indeed 

My  sudden  step  beside  you :  but  for  me, 

'Twould  move  me  sore  to  hear  your  softened  voice — 

Aurora's  voice — if  softened  unaware 

In  pity  of  what  I  am." 

Ah  friend,  I  thought. 
As  husband  of  the  lady  Waldemar 
You've  granted  very  sorely  pitiable  ! 
And  yet  Aurora  Leigh  must  guard  lier  voice 
From  softening  in  the  pity  of  your  case. 
As  if  from  lie  or  license.     Certainly 
We'll  soak  up  all  the  slush  and  soil  of  life 
With  softened  voices,  ere  we  come  to  you. 

At  which  I  interrupted  m^'  own  tliought 

And  spoke  out  calml\^     "  Let  us  ponder,  friend, 

Whate'er  our  state,  we  must  have  made  it  first ; 

And  though  the  thing  displease  us,  ay,  perhaps 

Displease  us  warrantably,  never  doubt 

That  other  states,  thought  possible  once,  and  then 

Kejected  b^'  the  instinct  of  our  lives — 

If  then  adopted,  had  displeased  us  more 

Than  this,  in  which  the  choice,  the  will,  the  love. 

Has  stamped  the  honor  of  a  patent  act 

From    henceforth.     What    we    choose,    may   not    be 

good  ; 
But,  that  we  choose  it,  proves  it  good  for  its 
Potentially,  fantastically,  now 
Or  last  year,  rather  than  a  thing  we  saw, 
And  saw  no  need  for  choosing.     Motlis  will  burn 
their  wings — which  proves    that   light   is    good    for 

moths. 
Or  else  they  bad  flown  not,  where  they  agonize." 


AURORA     LEIGH. 


Si5l 


"  Ay,  light  is  good,"  be  echoed,  and  there  paused. 
And  then  abruptly,  .  ,  "Mariun.     Marian's  well  ?" 

1  bowed  my  head  but  found  no  word.     'Twas  hard 

To  speak  oHier  to  Lady  Waldemar's 

New  husband.     IIow  much  did  he  know,  at  last? 

How  much?  how  little? He  would  take  no  sign, 

But  straight  repeated — "  Marian.     Js  she  well?"'' 

"  She  is  well,"  I  answered. 

She  was  there  in  sight 
An  hour  back,  but  the  night  had  drawn  her  home  ; 
Where  still  I  heard  her  in  an  upper  room. 
Her  low  voice  singing  to  the  child  in  bed, 
Who  restless  with  the  summer-heat  and  play 
And  slumber  snatched  at  noon,  was  long  sometimes 
At  falling  off,  and  took  a  score  of  songs 
And  mother-hushes,  ere  she  saw  him  sound. 


"  She's  well,"  I  answered. 


"Here?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  here." 


He  stopped  and  sighed.     "  That  shall  be  presently. 
But  now  this  must  be.     I  have  words  to  say. 
And  would  be  alone  to  say  tliem,  I  with  you. 
And  no  third  troubling." 

"  Speak  then,"  I  returned, 
"  She  will  not  vexj'ou." 

At  which,  suddenly 
He  turned  his  face  upon  me  with  its  smile. 
As  if  to  crush  me.     "  I  have  read  your  book, 
Aurora." 

"  You  have  read  it,"  I  replied, 
"  And  I  have  writ  it — we  have  done  witii  it. 
And  now  the  rest  ?" 

"  Tlie  rest  is  like  the  first," 
He  answered — "  For  the  book  is  in  my  heart. 
Lives  in  me,  wakes  in  me,  and  dreams  in  me; 
My  daily  bread  tastes  of  it— and  my  wine 
Which  has  no  smack  of  it,  I  pour  itout ; 
It  seems  unnatural  drinking." 


16S  A.UEORA     LEIGH. 

Bitterly 
1  took  the  word  np  ;  "  Never  waste  your  wine. 
The  book  lived  in  me  ere  it  lived  in  j-ou  ; 
I  know  it  closer  than  another  does, 
And  that  it's  foolish,  feeble,  and  afraid, 
And  all  unworthy  of  so  much  compliment. 
Beseech  you,  keep  3'our  wine — and,  when  3-0U  drink, 
Still  wish  some  happier  fortune  to  your  friend, 
Than  even  to  have  written  a  far  better  book  '' 

He  answered  gently,  "  That  is  consequent : 

The  poet  looks  be^'ond  the  book  he  has  made. 

Or  else  he  had  jiot  made  it.     If  a  rnan 

Could  make  a  man,  he'd  henceforth  be  a  god 

In  feeling  what  a  little  thing  is  man  : 

It  is  not  my  case.     And  this  special  book, 

I  did  not  make  it,  to  make  light  of  it : 

It  stands  above  my  knowledge,  draws  me  up; 

'Tis  high  to  me.     It  maj'  be  that  the  book 

Is  not  so  high,  but  I  so  low,  instead  ; 

Still  higli  to  me.     I  mean  no  compliment : 

I  will  not  sa}'  there  are  not,  .young  or  old, 

Male  writers,  ay,  or  female — let  it  pass, 

Who'll  write  us  richer  and  completer  books. 

A  man  may  love  a  woman  perfectly, 

And  yet  by  no  means  ignorantly  maintain 

A  thousand  women  have  not  larger  ej'es  : 

Enough  that  she  alone  has  looked  at  him 

With  eyes  that,  large  or  small,  have  won  his  soul. 

And  so,  this  book,  Aurora — so,  your  book." 

"  Alas,"  I  answered,  "is  it  so,  indeed  ?" 
And  then  was  silent. 

"  Is  it  so,  indeed," 
He  echoed,  "  that  alas  is  all  your  word  ?" 

I  said — "I'm  thinking  of  a  far-off  June, 
When  3^ou  and  I,  upon  mj'  birthday  once. 
Discoursed  of  life  and  art,  with  both  untried. 
Tm  thinking,  Romney,  how  'twas  morning  then, 
And  now  'tis  niglit." 

"And  now,"  he  said,  "  'tis  night." 

"  I'm  thinking,"  I  resumed,  "  'tis  somewhat  sad 
That  if  I  had  known,  that  mon.ing  in  the  dew, 


AURORA     LEIGH.  uSO 

My  cousin  Romney  would  have  said  such  words 

Ou  such  a  uiglit,  at  ch:)se  of  many  years, 

In  speaking  of  a  future  bo<;k  of  mine, 

Jt  would  have  pleased  rac  better  as  a  hope, 

'IMian  as  an  actual  grace  it  can  at  all. 

Tha,t's  sad,  I'm  thinking." 

"Ay,"  he  said,  "  'tis  night. 

"  And  there,''  I  added  lightly,  "  are  the  stars  ! 
And  here,  we'll  talk  of  stars,  and  not  of  books." 

"  You  have  the  stars,"  he  murmured — "  it  is  well: 

Be  like  them  !  shine,  Aurora,  on  my  dark, 

Tiiough  high  and  cold  and  only  like  a  star. 

And  for  this  short  night  oidy — you,  who  keep 

The  same  Aurora  of  the  bright  June-daj^ 

That  withered  up  the  flowers  before  my  face, 

And  turned  me  from  the  garden  evermore 

Because  I  was  not  worthy.     Oil,  deserved. 

Deserved  !     That  I,  who  verily  had  not  learnt 

God's  lesson  half,  attaining  as  a  dunce 

To  ol)literute  good  words  with  fractious  thumbs 

And  cheat  myself  of  the  context — /  should  push 

Aside,  with  male  ferocious  impudence, 

The  world's  vVurora  who  had  conned  her  part 

On  the  other  side  the  leaf!  ignore  her  so, 

Because  she  was  a  woinan  and  a  queen, 

And  had  no  beard  to  bristle  through  her  song — • 

^[3'  teacher,  who  has  taught  me  with  a  book. 

My  Miriam,  whose  sweet  mouth,  when  nearly  drowneJ 

1  still  heard  singing  on  the  shore  !     Deserved, 

That  here  1  should  look  up  unto  the  stars 

And  miss  the  glory  "  .  . 

"Can  I  understand?" 
I  broke  in.     "You  speak  wildly,  Romney  Leigh, 
Or  I  hear  wildly.     In  that  morning  time 
We  recollect,  the  roses  were  too  red, 
^rhe  trees  too  green,  reproach  too  natural 
If  one  should  see  not  what  the  other  saw  : 
And  now,  it's  night,  remember;  we  have  shades 
In  place  of  colors  ;  we  are  now  grown  cold. 
And  old,  my  <^.ousin  Romne3\     Pardon  me — 
I'm  very  happy  that  you  like  my  book. 
And  very  sorr}'  that  I  quoted  back 
A  ten  years'  l)irthday  ;  'twas  so  mad  a  thing 
In  any  woman,  I  scarce  marvel  much 


390  AURORA     LEIGH. 

You  took  it  fcfi"  a  venturous  piece  of  spite, 
Provoking  sucli  excuses,  as  indeed 
I  cannot  call  you  slack  in." 

"  Understand," 
He  answered  sadly,  "  something,  if  but  so. 
This  night  is  softer  than  an  English  da}', 
And  men  may  well  come  hither  when  they're  sick, 
To  draw  in  easier  breath  from  larger  air. 
'Tis  thus  with  me  ;  I've  come  to  you—  to  you, 
My  Italy  of  women,  just  to  breathe 
My  soul  out  once  before  3'ou,  ere  I  go, 
As  humble  as  God  makes  me  at  the  last, 
(I  thank  Him)  quite  out  of  the  way  of  men. 
And  3ours,  Aurora — like  a  punished  cliild. 
His  cheeks  all  blurred  with  tears  and  naughtiness, 
To  silence  in  a  corner.     I  am  come 
To  speak,  beloved  "  .  . 

"  Wisely,  cousin  Leigh, 
And  worthil}^  of  us  both  !" 

"  Yes,  worthil}- ; 
For  this  time  I  must  speak  out  and  confess 
That  I,  so  truculent  in  assumption  once. 
So  absolute  in  dogma,  proud  in  aim. 
And  fierce  in  expectation  —  I,  who  felt 
The  whole  world  tugging  at  my  skirts  for  help, 
As  if  no  other  man  than  I,  could  j^uU, 
Nor  woman,  but  I  led  her  by  the  hand. 
Nor  cloth  hold,  but  I  had  it  in  my  coat — 
Do  know  myself  to-night  for  what  I  was 
On  that  June-day,  Aurora.     Poor  bright  day, 
Which  meant  the  best  .  ,  a  woman  and  a  rose.  .  . 
And  which  I  smote  upon  the  cheek  with  words, 
Until  it  turned  and  rent  me!     Young  3'ou  were. 
That  birthday',  poet,  but  you  talked  the  right: 
While  I,  .  .  I  built  up  follies  like  a  wall 
To  intercept  the  sunshine  and  your  face. 
Your  face!  that's  worse." 

"  Speak  wisely,  cousin  Lcxorh 

"  Yes,  wiscl}',  dear  Aurora,  though  too  late : 
But  then,  not  wisel}'.     I  was  heavy  then, 
And  stupid,  and  distracted  with  the  cries 
Of  tortured  prisoners  in  the  polished  brass 
Of  that  Phalarian  bull,  society — 
Thich  seems  to  bellow  bravely  like  ten  bulls, 
But,  if  you  listen,  moans  and  cries  instead 


AURORA     LEIGH.  391 

Despairingly,  like  victims  tossed  and  gored 

And  trampled  by  their  hoofs.     I  heard  the  cries 

Too  close:   I  could  not  hoar  the  angels  lift 

A  fold  of  rustling  air,  nor  what  they  said 

To  help  my  pity.     I  beheld  the  world 

As  one  great  famishing  carnivorous  mouth — 

A  huge,  deserted,  callow,  black,  bird  Thing, 

AVitli  piteous  open  beak  that  hurt  ni}'  heart. 

Till  down  upon  the  filthy  ground  1  droi)ped, 

.Vnd  tore  the  violets  up  to  get  the  worms. 

^Vorms,  worms,  was  all  mj'^  cry :  an  open  mouth, 

A  gross  want,  bread  to  fill  it  to  the  lips. 

No  more  !     That  poor  men  narrowed  their  demands 

To  such  an  end,  w-as  virtue,  I  supposed, 

Adjudicating  that  to  see  it  so 

Was  reason.     Oh,  I  did  not  push  the  case 

Up  higher,  and  ponder  how  it  answers,  when 

The  rich  take  up  the  same  cry  for  themselves, 

Professing  equally — '  an  ojjcn  mouth, 

A  gross  want,  food  to  fill  us,  and  no  more!' 

AVhy  that's  so  far  from  virtue,  oidy  vice 

Finds  reason  for  it!     That  makes  libertines: 

That  slurs  our  cruel  streets  from  end  to  end 

With  eighty  thousand  w-omcn  in  one  smile, 

Who  only  smile  at  night  beneath  the  gas: 

T'lie  body's  satisfaction  and  no  more, 

Being  used  for  argument  against  the  soul's 

Here  too  !  the  want,  here  too,  implying  the  right 

• — How  dark  I  stood  that  morning  in  the  sun, 

.My  best  Aurora,  though  I  saw  your  eyes — 

AVhen  first  you  told  me  .   .  oh,  I  recollect 

The  words  .   .  and  how  you  lifted  your  white  hand, 

And  how  3'our  white  dress  and  3-our  burnished  curis 

Went  greatening  round  you  in  the  still  blue  air, 

As  if  an  inspiration  from  within 

Had  blown  them  all  out  when  you  spoke  the  same, 

l']^eu  these — '  You  will  not  compass  \'our  poor  cuds 

Of  harley-feeding  and  material  ease, 

AVithout  the  poet's  individualism 

'fo  work  your  universal.     It  takes  a  soul. 

To  move  a  body — it  takes  a  high-souled  man, 

To  move  the-  masses  .  .  even  to  a  cleaner  stye: 

U  takes  the  i'leal,  to  I1I0W  an  inch  inside 

The  ilust  of  the  actual:  and  your  Fouriers  failed, 

lieeause  not  poets  enough  to  understand 

That  life  develops  from  within."     I  say 


,1^4  AI/RORA     LEIGH. 

Your  w.,.'ds— I  could  say  other  \rords  of  yours  ; 

For  none  of  all  your  words  has  been  more  lost 

Than  sweet  verbena,  which,  being  brushed  against, 

Will  hold  you  three  hours  after  by  the  smell, 

In  spite  of  long  walks  on  the  windy  hills. 

But  these  words  dealt  in  sharper  perfume — these 

Were  ever  on  me,  stinging  through  my  dreams, 

And  saying  themselves  forever  o'er  my  acts 

lake  some  unhappy  verdict.     That  I  failed. 

Is  certain.     Stye  or  no  stye,  to  contrive 

The  swine's  propulsion  toward  the  precipice, 

Proved  easy  and  plain.     I  subtly  organized 

And  ordered,  built  the  cards  up  higher  and  higher. 

Till,  some  one  breathing,  all  fell  flat  again  ? 

In  setting  right  society's  wide  wrong, 

]^Iere  life's  so  fatal !     So  I  failed  indeed 

Once,  twice,  and  oftener — hearing  through  the  rents 

Of  obstinate  purpose,  still  those  words  of  yours, 

'  You  xcill  not  compass  your  poor  ends,  not  you  /' 

IJut  harder  than  you  said  them  ;  every  time 

Still  farther  from  your  voice,  until  they  came 

To  overcrow  me  with  triumphant  scoin 

"Which  vexed  me  to  resistance.     Set  down  this 

For  condemnation.— I  was  guilty  here: 

1  stood  uix)n  my  deed  and  fought  my  doubt, 

As  men  will — for  I  doubted — till  at  last 

jNIy  deed  gave  way  beneath  me  suddenly, 

And  left  me  what  I  am.     The  curtain  dropped, 

My  part  quite  ended,  all  the  footlights  quenched, 

My  own  soul  hissing  at  me  through  the  dark, 

I,  ready  for  confession— I  was  wrong, 

I've  sorely  failed;  I've  slipped  the  ends  of  life, 

1  vicld  ;  you  have  conquered." 

"  Stay,"  I  answered  him  ; 
"  I've  something  for  your  hearing,  also.     I 
Have  failed  too.'' 

"  You!"  he  said,  "you're  very  great 
The  sadness  of  your  j^reatness  fits  you  well: 
As  if  the  plume  upon  a  hero's  casque 
Should  nod  a  shadow  upon  his  victor  face." 

I  took  him  up  austerely — "  You  have  read 
My  book  but  not  my  heart;  for  recollect, 
'Tis  writ  in  Sanscrit,  which  you  bungle  at. 
I've  surely  failed,  I  know;  if  failure  means 
To  look  back  sadly  ou  work  gladly  done — 


AURORA     LBIGH.  09.3 

To  wantler  on  my  niountiuns  of  Delight, 

So  called,  (I  can  remember  a  friend's  word 

As  well  as  j'ou,  sir,)  weary  and  in  want 

Of  even  a  sheep-path,  thinking  bitterly  ,  . 

'^^''ell,  well!  no  matter.     I  but  saj'  so  much, 

To  keep  3'ou,  Komney  Leigh,  from  saying  more, 

And  let  you  feel  I  am  not  so  high  indeed. 

That  I  can  bear  to  have  you  at  my  foot — 

Or  safe,  that  1  can  help  3'ou.     That  June-day, 

Too  deeply  sunk  in  craterous  sunsets  now 

For  yon  or  me  to  dig  it  up  alive  ; 

To  pluck  it  out  all  bleeding  with  spent  flame 

At  the  roots,  before  those  moralizing  stars 

"We  have  got  instead — that  poor  lost  day,  you  said 

Some  words  as  truthful  as  the  thing  of  mine 

You  care  to  keep  in  memory  :  and  I  hold 

If  I,  that  day,  and,  being  the  girl  I  was, 

Had  shown  a  gentler  spirit,  less  arrogance, 

It  had  not  hurt  me.     Ah,  you'll  not  mistake 

The  point  here.     I  but  onl}'  think,  you  see, 

More  justly,  that's  more  humbly,  of  myself, 

Than  when  I  tried  a  crown  on  and  supposed   .   .   . 

Kay,  laugh,  sir — I'll  laugh  with  you  ! — pray  you  lar.orh 

I've  had  so  many  birthdays  since  that  day, 

I've  learnt  to  prize  mirth's  ojiportunities, 

Which  come  t(J0  seldom.     Was  it  30U  who  said 

I  was  not  changed  ?  the  same  Aurora  ?     Ah, 

We  could  laugh  there,  too!     Wh^^  Uh-sses'dog 

Knew  him,  and  wagged  his  tail  and  died  :  but  if 

I  had  owned  a  dog,  I  too,  before  my  Ti'oy, 

And  if  you  brought  him  here,  .  .  1  warrant  you 

He'd  look  into  my  face,  bark  lustily-, 

i*  nd  live  on  stoutly,  as  the  creatures  will 

Whose  spiiits  are  not  troubled  b}^  long  loves. 

A  dog  would  never  know  me,  I'm  so  changed  ; 

Much  less  a  friend  .  .  except  that  you're  misled 

B3'  the  color  of  the  hair,  the  trick  of  the  voice, 

Like  that  of  Aurora  Leigh's." 

"  Sweet  trick  of  voice 
I  would  be  a  dog  for  this,  to  know  it  at  last, 
And  die  npon  the  falls  of  it.     0  love, 
O  best  Aurora!  are  you  then  so  sad, 
You  scarcely  had  been  sadder  as  my  wife  ?  " 

"  Your  wife,  sir !     I  must  certainly  be  changed, 
If  I,  Aurora,  can  have  said  a  thing 


;;(j4  AURORA     LEIGH. 

So  ligbt,  it  catches  at  the  knightly  spurs 
Of  a  noble  gentleman  like  Romney  Leigh, 
And  trips  him  from  his  honorable  sense 
Of  what  betits  "  .  . 

"  You  wholly  misconceive," 

lie  answered. 

I  returned — "  I'm  glad  of  it ; 
But  keep  from  misconception,  too,  yourself: 
I  am  nut  humbled  to  so  low  a  point. 
Nor  so  far  saddened.     If  I  am  sad  at  all, 
Ten  layers  of  birthdays  on  a  woman's  head, 
Are  apt  to  fossilize  her  girlish  mirth. 
Though  ne'er  so  merry  :  I'm  perforce  more  wise, 
And  That,  in  truth,  means  sadder.     For  the  rest, 
Look  here,  sir :  I  was  right  upon  the  whole, 
That  birthday  morning.     'Tis  impossible 
To  get  at  men  excepting  through  their  souls, 
However  open  their  carnivorous  jaws  ; 
And  poets  get  directlier  at  the  soul. 
Than  any  of  j'our  ceconomists  : — for  which, 
You  must  not  overlook  the  poet's  work 
When  scheming  for  the  world's  necessities. 
The  souTs  the  way.     Not  even  Christ  himself 
Can  save  man  else  than  as  he  holds  man's  soul ; 
And  therefore  did  He  come  into  our  flesh, 
As  some  wise  hunter  creeping  on  his  knees 
With  a  torch,  into  the  blackness  of  some  cave, 
To  face  and  quell  the  beast  there — take  the  soul. 
And  so  possess  the  whole  man,  body  and  soul. 
I  said,  so  far,  right,  yes ;  not  farther,  though  : 
We  both  were  wrong  that  June-day — both  as  wrong 
As  an  east  wind  had  been.     I  who  talked  of  art, 
And  you  who  grieved  for  all  men's  griefs  .  .  .  what 

then  ? 
We  surely  made  too  small  a  part  for  God 
In  these  tilings.     What  we  are,  imports  us  more 
Than  what  we  eat ;  and  life  you've  granted  me, 
Develops  from  within.     But  innermost 
Of  the  inmost,  most  interior  of  the  interne, 
God  claims  his  own.  Divine  humanity 
llenewing  nature — or  the  piercingest  verse, 
Prest  in  by  subtlest-poet,  still  must  keep 
As  much  upou  the  outside  of  a  man, 
As  the  very  bowl,  in  which  he  dips  his  beard. 
—And  then.  .  .  the  rest.     I  cannot  surely  speak. 
Perhaps  I  doubt  more  than  you  doubted  then, 


AURORA      LEIOn.  oOS 

If  I,  the  poet's  veritable  charge, 

Have  borne  upon  my  forehead.     If  I  bave 

It  might  feel  somewhat  liker  to  a  crown, 

TJie  foolish  green  one  even. — Ah,  1  think, 

And  chiefly  when  the  sun  siiines,  that  I've  failed. 

But  what  then,   llomney  ?     Though   we  fail  indeed. 

You  .  .  I  .  .  a  score  of  such  weak  woi-kers,  .  .  He 

Fails  never.     If  He  cannot  work  by  ns, 

He  will  work  over  us.     Does  he  want  a  man, 

Much  less  a  woman,  think  you?     Every  time 

The  star  winks  there,  so  many  souls  are  born. 

Who  shall  work  too.     Let  our  own  be  calm  : 

We  should  be  ashamed  to  sit  beneath  those  stars, 

Impatient  that  we're  nothing." 

"  Could  we  sit 
Just  so  forever,  sweetest  friend,"  he  said, 
"  My  failure  would  seem  better  than  success. 
And  3'et,  indeed,  your  book  has  dealt  with  me 
More  gently,  cousin,  than  you  ever  will  ! 
The  book  brought  down  entire  tiie  bright  June-day, 
And  set  me  wandering  in  the  garden-walks, 
And  let  me  watch  the  garland  in  a  place. 
You  blushed  so  .  .  nay,  forgive  me  ;  do  not  stir: 
I  only  thank  the  book  for  what  it  taught. 
And  what,  permitted.     Poet,  doul)t  yourself: 
But  never  doubt  that  you're  a  poet  to  me 
From  henceforth.     Ah,  you've  written  poems,  sweet, 
Which  moved  me  in  secret  as  the  sap  is  moved 
In  still  March  branches,  signless  as  a  stone  : 
But  this  last  book  overcame  me  like  soft  rain 
Which  falls  at  midnight,  when  the  tightened  bark 
Breaks  out  into  unhesitating  buds. 
And  sudden  protestations  of  the  spring. 
In  all  3'our  other  books  I  saw  but  ynu : 
A  man  may  see  the  moon  so,  in  a  pond, 
And  not  the  nearer  therefore  to  the  moon, 
Nor  use  the  sight  .  .  except  to  drown  himself: 
And  so  I  forced  my  heart  back  from  the  sight ; 
For  what  had  /,  I  thought,  to  do  with  her — 
Aurora  .  .  Romney  ?     But,  in  this  last  book, 
You  showed  me  something  separate  from  j'ourself, 
Beyond  3'ou  ;  and  I  bore  to  take  it  in. 
And  let  it  draw  me.     You  have  shown  me  truths, 
0  June-day  friend,  that  help  me  now  at  night. 
When  June  is  over  !  truths  not  yours,  indeed, 
But  set  within  my  reach  by  means  of  you  : 


•'JOG  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Presented  by  your  voice  and  verse  the  way 

To  take  them  clearest.     Yerilj^  I  was  wrong ; 

And  verily,  many  thinkers  of  this  age, 

Ay,  many  Christian  teachers,  half  in  heaven, 

Are  wrong  in  just  m}'  sense,  who  understood 

Our  natural  world  too  insularlj',  as  if 

No  spiritual  counterpart  completed  it 

Consummating  its  meaning,  rounding  all 

To  justice  and  perfection,  line  by  line. 

Form  b}'  form,  nothing  single,  nor  alone — 

The  great  below  clenched  by  the  great  above  ; 

Shade  here  authenticating  substance  there  ; 

The  body  proving  spirit,  as  the  effect 

The  cause:  we,  meantime,  being  too  grossly"  apt 

To  hold  the  natural,  as  dogs  a  bone, 

(Though  reason  and  nature  beat  us  in  the  face,) 

So  obstinatel}',  that  we'll  break  our  teeth 

Or  ever  we  let  go.     For  everywhere 

We're  too  materialistic — eating  clay, 

(Like  men  of  the  west)  instead  of  Adam's  corn 

And  Noah's  wine  ;  clay  by  handfuls,  clay  by  lumps, 

Until  we're  filled  up  to  the  tliroat  with  clay, 

And  grow  the  grin\y  color  of  the  ground 

On  which  we  are  feeding.     Ay,  materialist 

The  age's  name  is.     God  himself,  with  some, 

Is  apprehended  as  the  bare  result 

Of  what  his  hand  materially  has  made. 

Expressed  in  such  an  aUebraic  sign, 

Called  God  ; — that  is,  to  put  it  otberwise, 

They  add  up  nature  to  a  naught  of  God 

And  cross  the  quotient.     There  are  many,  even, 

Whose  names  are  written  in  the  Christian  church 

To  no  dishonor — diet  still  on  mud, 

And  splash  the  altars  with  it.     You  might  think 

The  clay,  Christ  laid  upon  their  eyelids  wlien. 

Still  blind,  he  called  them  to  the  use  of  sight. 

Remained  there  to  retard  its  exercise 

With  clogging  incrustations.     Close  to  heaven, 

The}'  see,  for  mysteries,  through  the  open  doors, 

Vague  puffs  of  smoke  from  pots  of  earthenware  ; 

And  fain  would  enter,  when  their  time  shall  come, 

With  quite  different  body  than  St.  Paul 

Has  promised — husk  and  chaff,  the  whole  barleycorn 

Or  Where's  the  resurrection  ?" 

"  Thus  It  is," 
I  sighed.      And  he  resumed  with  mournful  face 


A  u  R  0  R  A    LE  la  II.  39'; 

"  Beginning  so,  and  filling  up  Avith  clay 

The  wards  of  this  great  key,  the  natural  world, 

And  fumbling  vainly  therefore  at  tlic  lock 

Of  the  spiritual — we  feel  ourselves  shut  in 

With  all  the  wild-beast  roar  of  struggling  life, 

The  terrors  and  compunctions  of  our  souls, 

As  saints  with  lions — we  who  aie  not  saints. 

And  have  no  heaveiil3'  lordship  in  our  stare 

To  awe  them  backward  !     Ay,  we  are  forced  so  pent 

To  judge  the  whole  too  partially',  .  .  confound 

Conclusions.     Is  there  any  common  phrase 

Significant,  when  the  adverb's  heard  alone, 

The  verb  being  absent,  and  the  pr<;noun  out! 

But  we  distracted  in  the  roar  of  life, 

Still  insolently  at  God's  adverb  snatch, 

And  bruit  against  Him  that  his  thought  is  void, 

llis  meaning  hopeless  ; — cry,  that  everywhere 

The  government  is  slipping  from  his  hand. 

Unless  some  other  Christ  .  .  sa}'  Romney  Leigh  . 

Come  up,  and  toil  and  moil,  and  change  the  world. 

For  which  the  First  luis  i)roved  inadeciuate, 

However  we  talk  bigly  of  His  work 

And  piously  of  His  person.     We  blas[)heme 

At  last,  to  finish  that  doxology. 

Despairing  on  the  earth  for  which  He  died." 

"So  now,"  I  asked,  "you  have  more  hope  of  men?" 

"  I  hope,"  he  answered  :  "  I  am  come  to  think 

That  God  will  have  his  work  done,  as  you  said, 

And  that  we  need  not  be  disturbed  too  much 

For  Komney  Leigh  or  others  having  failed 

With  this  or  that  quack  nostrum — recipes 

For  keeping  summits  bv  annuling  depths. 

For  learning  wrestling  with  long  lounging  sleeves, 

And  perfect  heroism  without  a  scratch. 

We  fail — what  then  ?     Aurora,  if  I  smiled 

To  see  you,  in  your  lovely  morning-pride, 

Tr}'  on  the  poet's  wreath  which  suits  the  noon — 

(Sweet  cousin,  walls  must  get  the  weather-stain 

Before  they  grow  the  iv^- !)  certainlj' 

I  stood  myself  thei-e  worthier  of  contempt. 

Self-rated,  in  disastrous  arrogance. 

As  conipetent  to  sorrow  for  mankind 

And  even  their  odds.      A  man  mav  well  despair, 

Who  counts  hhnself  so  r.eedlul  to  success. 


398  AURORA     LEIGH. 

I  failed.     I  throw  the  remedy  back  on  God, 

And  sit  down  here  beside  you,  in  good  hope." 

'And  yet,  take  heed,"  I  answered,  "lest  we  lean 

Too  dangerously  on  the  other  side, 

And  so  fail  twice.     Be  sure,  no  earnest  work 

Of  any  honest  creature,  howbeit  weak, 

Imperfect,  ill-adapted,  fails  so  much, 

It  is  not  gathered  as  a  grain  of  sand 

To  enlarge  the  sum  of  human  action  used 

For  carrrying  out  God's  end.     No  creature  works 

So  ill,  observe,  that  therefore  he's  cashiered. 

The  honest  earnest  man  must  stand  and  work  : 

The  woman  also  ;  otherwise  she  drops 

At  once  below  the  dignity  of  man, 

Accepting  serfdom.     1^'ree  men  freely  work: 

Whoever  fears  God,  fears  to  sit  at  ease." 

lie  cried,  "  True.     After  Adam,  work  was  curse; 
The  natural  creature  labors,  sweats  and  frets. 
But,  after  Christ,  work  turns  to  privilege  ; 
And  henceforth  one  with  our  humanity. 
The  Six-day  Worker,  working  still  in  us, 
Has  called  us  freely  to  work  on  with  Ilim 
In  high  companionship.     So  happiest  ! 
I  count  that  Heaven  itself  is  only  Avork 
To  a  surer  issue.     Let  us  work,  indeed — 
But,  no  more  work,  as  Adam  .  .  nor  as  Leigh 
Erewhile,  as  if  the  only  man  on  earth. 
Responsible  for  all  the  thistles  blown 
And  tigers  couchant — struggling  in  amaze 
Against  disease  and  winter — snarling  on 
Forever,  that  the  world's  not  paradise. 
j  Oh  cousin,  let  us  be  content,  in  work, 
/  To  do  the  thing  we  can,  and  not  presume' 
'  To  fret  because  it's  little.     'Twill  employ 
Seven  men,  they  say,  to  make  a  perfect  pin  ! 
Who  makes  the  head,  content  to  miss  the  point — 
Who  makes  the  point,  agreed  to  leave  the  join  : 
And  if  a  man  should  cry,  '  I  want  a  pin. 
And  I  must  make  it  straightAvay,  head  and  point ' — 
His  wisdom  is  not  worth  the  pin  he  wants. 
Seven  men  to  a  pin — and  not  a  man  too  much ! 
Seven  generations,  haply  to  this  world. 
To  right  it  visibly,  a  tinger's  breadth. 
And  mend  its  rents  a  little.     Oh,  to  storm, 
And  say — '  This  world  here  is  intolerable  ; 


AURORA      LEIQU.  3>j<j 

I  will  not  eat  this  coin,  nor  di-iiik  this  wine, 
Nor  love  this  woman,  flinging  her  nij'  soul 
Without  a  bond  for  't,  as  a  lover  should, 
Xor  use  the  generous  leave  of  happiness 
As  not  too  good  for  using  generou.-ly' — 
(Since  virtue  kindles  at  tlie  touch  of  jo^-, 
Like  a  man's  cheek  laid  on  a  woman's  hand; 
And  God,  who  knows  it,  looks  lor  quick  returns 
From  joys  !)— to  stand  and  claim  to  have  a  life 
])eyond  the  bounds  of  the  individual  man. 
And  raze  all  personal  cloisters  of  the  soul 
To  build  up  public  stores  and  magazines, 
As  if  God's  creatures  otherwise  were  lost. 
The  builder  surely  saved  by  any  means  ! 
To  think — I  have  a  pattern  on  my  nail, 
And  I  will  carve  the  world  new  after  it, 
And  solve  so,  these  hard  social  questions — nav. 
Impossible  social  questions  — since  their  roots^ 
Strike  deep  in  Evil's  own  existence  here, 
Which  God  permits  becnnse  the  question's  hard 
To  abolish  evil  nor  attaint  free-will. 
Ay,  hard  to  God,  but  not  to  Komne}-  Leigh! 
For  Romney  has  a  pattern  on  his  nail, 
(Whatever  may  be  lacking  on  the  Mount) 
And  not  being  overnice  to  separate 
What's  element  from  what's  convention,  hastes 
By  line  on  line,  to  draw  you  out  a  world. 
Without  your  help  indeed,  unless  j'ou  take 
His  yoke  upon  you  and  will  learn  of  him — 
So  much  he  has  to  teach  !  so  good  a  world  ! 
The  same,  the  whole  creation's  groaning  for! 
No  rich  nor  poor,  no  gain  nor  loss  nor  stint, 
No  potage  in  it  able  to  excluc'e 
A  brother's  birthright,  and  no  right  of  birth. 
The  potage — both  secured  to  tvery  man; 
And  perfect  virtue  dealt  out  like  the  rest. 
Gratuitously,  with  the  soup  at  six, 
To  whoso  does  not  seek  it." 

"  Softly,  sir," 
I  interrupted — "  I  had  a  cousin  once 
1  held  in  reverence.     If  he  strained  too  wide. 
It  was  not  to  take  honor,  but  give  help  ; 
The  gesture  was  heroic.     If  his  hand 
Accomplislied  nothing  .   .   (well,  it  is  not  proved) 
That  empty  hand  thrown  impotently  out 
Were  sooner  caught,  think,  by  One  in  heaven. 


400  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Than  many  a  band  that  reaped  a  harvest  in 

And  keeps  the  sc^^the's  glow  on  it.     Pray  you,  then, 

For  my  sake  merely,  use  less  bitterness 

In  speaking  of  my  cousin." 

"  Ah,"  he  said, 
"  Aurora!  when  the  prophet  beats  the  ass. 
The  angel  intercedes."     He  shook  his  head — 
"  And  yet  to  nu-an  so  well,  and  fail  so  foul, 
lilxpresses  ne'er  another  boast  than  naan  ; 
The  antithesis  is  human,     llarken  dear; 
There's  too  much  abstract  willing,  purposing, 
In  this  poor  world.     We  talk  by  aggregates, 
And  think  by  systems ;  and,  being  used  to  face 
Our  evils  in  statistics,  are  inclined 
To  cap  them  with  unreal  remedies 
Drawn  out  in  haste  on  the  other  side  the  slate." 

"  That's  true,"  I  answered,  fain  to  throw  up  tliought, 

And  make  a  game  oft :  "  Oh,  we  generalize 

Enough  to  please  you.     If  we  pray  at  all, 

We  pray  no  longer  for  our  daily  bread, 

But  next  centenary's  harvests.     If  we  give, 

Our  cup  of  water  is  not  tendered  till 

We  lay  down  pipes  and  found  a  Company 

With  iiranches.     Ass  or  angel,  'tis  the  same: 

A  woman  cannot  do  the  thing  she  ought. 

Which  means  whatever  perfect  thing  she  tvn, 

In  life,  in  art,  in  science,  but  she  lears 

To  let  the  perfect  action  take  her  j)art 

And  rest  there:  she  must  prove  what  she  can  do 

Before  she  does  it — prate  of  woman's  rights, 

Of  woman's  mission,  woman's  function,  till 

The  men  (who  are  prating,  too,  on  their  side)  cry, 

'  A  woman's  function  plainly  is  .  .  to  talk. 

Poor  souls,  they  are  very  reasonably  vexed  1 

I'hey  cannot  hear  each  other  speak.' 

'  "  And  you, 
An  artist,  judge  so?" 

'  I,  an  artist — yes, 
Because,  precisely,  I'm  an  artist,  sir, 
And  woman — if  another  sat  in  sight, 
I'd  whisper — Soft,  my  sister!  not  a  word! 
By  speaking  we  prove  only  we  can  speak : 
AVhich  he,  the  man  here,  never  doubted.     What 
He  doubts,  is  whether  we  can  do  the  thing 
With  decent  grace,  we've  not  yet  done  at  all : 


AURORA      LEIGH.  401 

N"ow,  do  it  ;  bring  your  statue — 3-ou  have  room ! 

He'll  see  it  even  by  the  starlight  here; 

And  if  'tis  e'er  so  little  like  the  god 

Wli^  looks  out  from  the  marble  silently' 

Along  the  track  of  his  own  shining  dart 

Tiirough  the  dusk  of  ages — there's  no  need  to  speak; 

The  universe  shall  henceforth  speak  for  you, 

iVnd  witness,  '  She  who  ditl  this  thing,  was  born 

To  do  it — claims  her  license  in  her  work.' 

— And  so  with  more  works.     Whoso  cures  the  plague, 

Though  twice  a  woman,  shall  be  called  a  leech  : 

AVho  rights  a  land's  finances,  is  excused 

For  touching  coppers,  though  her  hands  be  white — 

But  we,  Ave  talk!" 

"  It  is  the  age's  mood," 
He  said ;  "  we  boast,  and  do  not.     We  put  u}) 
Ilostehy  signs  where'er  we  lodge  a  da}' — 
Some  red  colossal  cow,  Avith  mighty  paps 
A  Cyclops'  fingers  could  not  strain  to  milk ; 
Then  bring  out  presently  our  saucer-full 
Of  curds.     We  want  more  quiet  in  our  works, 
More  knowledge  of  the  bounds  in  which  we  work  ; 
More  knowledge  that  each  individual  man 
Ileinains  an  Adam  to  the  general  race, 
Consti'ained  to  see,  like  Adam,  that  he  keep 
His  personal  state's  condition  honesth*. 
Or  vain  all  thoughts  of  his  to  help  the  Avorld, 
Which  still  must  be  develoi)ed  from  its  one, 
If  bettered  in  its  man}'.      We,  indeed, 
Who  think  to  la}'  it  out  new  like  a  park. 
We  take  a  work  on  us  which  is  not  man's  ; 
For  God  alone  sits  far  enough  above. 
To  speculate  so  largely.     None  of  us 
(Not  Romney  Leigh)  is  mad  enough  to  say, 
We'll  have  a  grove  of  oaks  upon  tliat  slope 
And  sink  the  need  of  acorns.     Government, 
If  veritable  and  lawful,  is  not  given 
By  imposition  of  the  foreign  hand — 
Nor  chosen  from  a  pretty  pattern-book 
Of  some  domestic  idealogue,  who  sits 
And  coldly  chooses  empire,  Avhere  as  well 
He  might  republic.     Genuine  government 
Is  but  the  expression  of  a  nation,  good 
Or  less  good — even  as  all  society, 
Howe'er  unequal,  monstrous,  crazed  and  cursed, 
Is  but  the  expression  of  men's  single  lives, 


402  AURORA     LEIGH. 

The  loud  sum  of  the  silent  units.     What, 
,   We'd  change  the  aggregate  and  j^et  retain 
!    Each  separate  figure?     Whom  do  we  cheat  by  that? 

■Now,  not  even  Ilomne3%" 

"  Cousin,  you  are  sad. 

Pid  all  your  social  labor  at  Leigh  HjvU 

And  elsewhere,  come  to  nought  then  ?" 

"  It  was  nought," 
He  answered  mildly.     "  There  is  room  indeed, 
For  statues  still,  in  this  large  world  of  God's,' 
But  not  for  vacuums — so  1  am  not  sad: 
Not  sadder  than  is  good  for  what  I  am. 
M}'  vain  phalanstery  dissolved  itself; 
My  men  and  women  of  disordered  lives, 
I  brought  in  orderly  to  dine  and  sleep, 
Broke  up  those  waxen  masks  I  made  them  wear 
With  fierce  contortions  of  the  natural  face  ; 
And  cursed  me  for  my  tyrannous  constraint 
In  forcing  crooked  creatures  to  live  straight; 
And  set  tiie  country  hounds  upon  my  back 
To  bite  and  tear  me  for  my  wicked  deed 
Of  trying  to  do  good  witliout  the  church 
Or  even  the  squires,  Aurora.     Do  you  mind 
Your     ancient     neighbors?      The     great    book-clulj 

teems 
With  '  sketches,'  'summaries,'   and  '  last  tracts  '  bu( 

twelve, 
On  socialistic  troublers  of  close  bonds 
Betwixt  the  generous  rich  and  grateful  poor 
The  vicar  preached  from  '  Revelations,'  (till 
The  doctor  woke)  and  found  me  with  '  the  frogs  ' 
On  three  successive  Sundays  ;  ay,  and  stopped 
To  weep  a  little  (for  he's  getting  old) 
That  such  perdition  should  o'ert^ke  a  man 
Of  such  fair  acres — in  the  parish,  too  ! 
He  printed  his  discourses  '  l)y  request ;  ' 
And  if  your  book  shall  sell  as  his  did,  then 
Your  verses  are  less  good  than  I  suppose. 
The  women  of  the  neighborhood  subscrilied, 
And  sent  me  a  cop}-  bound  in  scarlet  silk. 
Tooled  edges,  blazoned  with  the  arms  of  Lei^h : 
I  own  that  touched  me." 

"  What,  the  pretty  ones  ? 
Poor  Romnej'^ !  " 

"  Otherwise  the  effect  was  small. 
I  had  my  windows  broken  once  or  twice 


AURORA     LEiau.  403 

B}'  liberal  peasants,  naturally  incensed 

At  such  a  voxer  of  Arcadian  peace, 

\Vh()  would  not  let  men  call  their  wives  their  own 

'I'o  Ivick  like  Britons — and  made  obstacles 

AVheu  tilings  went  smoothly  as  a  bahy  drugged. 

Toward  freedom  and  starvation  ;  bringing  down 

The  wicked  London  tavern-thieves  and  drabs, 

To  afl'ront  the  blessed  hillsitle  drabs  and  thieves 

With  mended  morals,  quotha^fine  new  lives  ! — 

My  windows  paid  for't.     1  was  shot  at,  once, 

By  an  active  poacher  who  had  hit  a  hare 

From  the  other  barrel,  tired  of  springeing  game 

So  long  upon  my  acres,  undisturbed, 

And  restless  for  the  country's  virtue,  (yet 

He  missed  me) — ay,  and  pelted  very  oft 

In  riding  through  the  village.     '  There  he  goes, 

Who'd  drive  away  our  Christian  gentlefolks, 

To  catch  us  undefended  in  the  trap 

He  baits  with  i)oisonous  cheese,  and  lock  us  up 

In  that  pernicious  prison  of  Leigh  Hall 

With  all  his  murderers  !     Give  another  name, 

And  say  Leigh  Hell,  and  burn  it  up  with  fire.' 

And  so  they  did  at  last,  Aurora." 

"  Did  ?  "       • 

"  You  never  heard  it,  cousin  ?     Vincent's  news 
Came  stinted,  then." 

"  They  did  ?  they  burnt  Leigh  Hall?  " 

"  You're  sorry,  dear  Aurora  ?     Yes  indeed, 
They  did  it  perfectly :  a  thorough  work, 
And  not  a  failure,  this  time.     Let  us  grant 
'Tis  somewhat  easier,  though,  to  burn  a  house 
Than  build  a  S3'stem  : — yet  that's  easy,  too. 
In    a    dream.      Books,     pictures — ay,     the    pictures 

what, 
You   think    3^our  dear    Vandykes  would  give   them 

pause  ? 
Our  proud  ancestral  Leighs  Avith  those  peaked  beards, 
Or  bosoms  white  as  foam  thrown  up  on  rocks 
From  the  old-spent  w^ave.     Such  calm  defiant  looks 
They  flared  up  with!  now,  nevermore  they'll  twit 
The  bones  in  the  family-vault  with  ugly  death. 
Not  one  was  rescued,  save  the  Lady  Maud, 
Who  threw  you  down,  that  morning  you  were  boru, 
The  undeniable  lineal  mouth  and  chin, 


404  AURORA      LEIGH. 

To  wear  forevei*  for  her  gracious  sake  ; 
For  wliich  good  deed  1  saved  her:  the  rest  went. 
And  you,  you're  sorr^-,  cousin.     Well,  forme, 
With  all  my  phalansterians  safely  out, 
(Poor  hearts,  the}-  helped  the  burners,  it  was  said, 
And  certainl}"  a  few  clapped  hands  and  3'elled) 
The  ruin  did  not  hurt  me  as  it  might — 
As  when  for  instance  I  was  hurt  one  day, 
A  certain  letter  being  destro^'ed.     In  fact, 
To  see  the  great  house  flare  so  .  .  oaken  floors, 
Our  fathers  made  so  fine  with  rushes  once, 
Before  our  mothers  furbished  them  with  trains — 
Carved  wainscoats,  panelled  walls,  the  favorite  slide 
For  draining  off  a  martyr,  (or  a  rogue) 
The  echoing  galleries,  half  a  half-mile  long, 
And  all  tlie  various  stairs  that  took  you  up 
And  took  you  down,  and  took  jou  round  about 
Upon  their  slippery  darkness,  recollect. 
All  helping  to  keep  up  one  blazing  jest 
The  flames  through  all  the  casements  pushing  forth. 
Like  red-hot  devils  crinkled  into  snakes. 
All  signifying — '  Look  you,  Komne}'  Leigh, 
We  save  the  people  from  your  saving,  here. 
Yet  so  as  by  fire  !  we  make  a  prett}'  show 
Besides— and  that's  the  best  you've  ever  done.'— 
■ — To  see  this,  almost  moved  myself  to  clap  ! 
The  '  vale  et  plaude  '  came,  too,  with  effect, 
"When,  in  the  roof  fell,  and  the  fire,  that  paused. 
Stunned  momentl}^  beneath  the  strokes  of  slates 
And  tumbling  rafters,  rose  at  once  and  roared. 
And  wrap[)ing  the  whole  house,  (which  disappeared 
In  a  mounting  whirlwind  of  dilated  flame,) 
Blew  upwai'd,  straight,  its  drift  of  fier}'  chaff 
In  the  face  of  heaven,  .  .  which  blenched  and  ran  up 
higher." 

"  Poor  Romney  !  " 

"  Sometimes  when  I  dream,"  he  said, 
"  I  hear  the  silence  after  ;  'twas  so  still. 
For  all  those  wild  beasts,  yelling,  cursing  round. 
Were  suddenly  silent,  while  3'ou  counted  five  ! 
So  silent,  that  you  heard  a  youiig  bird  fall 
From  the  top-nest  in  the  neighboring  rookery 
Through  edging  over-rashly  towilrd  tiie  light. 
The  old  rooks  had  already  fled  too  far. 
To  hear  the  screech  they  fled  with,  though  you  saw 


AURORA     LEIGH.  405 

Some  flying  on  still,  like  scatterings  of  dead  leaves 
In  autumn-gusts,  seen  dark  against  the  sky  : 
All  flying — ousted,  like  the  house  of  Leigh." 

"  Dear  llomney !  " 

"  Evidently  'twould  have  been 
A  fine  sight  for  a  poet,  sweet,  like  you, 
Tc  make  the  verse  blaze  after.     I  myself, 
Even  I,  felt  something  in  the  grand  old  trees, 
"Which  stood  that  moment  like  brute  Druid  gods, 
Amazed  upon  the  rim  of  ruin,  wliere, 
As  into  a  blackened  socket,  the  great  fire 
Had   dropped — still   throwing  up   splinters  now  and 

then. 
To  show  them  grey  with  all  their  centuries, 
Left  there  to  witness  that  on  such  a  day 
The  house  went  out." 

"Ah!" 

"  While  you  counted  five 
I  seemed  to  feel  a  little  like  a  Leigii — 
But  then  it  passed,  Aurora.     A  child  ci-ied  ; 
And  1  had  enough  to  think  of  what  to  do 
With  all  those  houseless  wretches  in  the  dark, 
And  ponder  where  they'd  dance  the  next  time,  they 
Wiio  had  burnt  the  viol." 

"  Did  you  think  of  that  ? 
Who  burns  his  viol  will  not  dance,  I  know, 
To  cymbals,  Roraney." 

"  0  ray  sweet  sad  voice," 
He  cried — "  0  voice  that  speaks  and  overcomes  ! 
The  sun  is  silent,  but  Aurora  speaks." 

"Alas,"  I  said  ;  "  I  speak  I  know  not  what: 
I'm  back  in  childhood,  thinking  as  a  child, 
A  foolish  fancy — will  it  make  you  smile  ? 
I  shall  not  from  the  window  of  my  room 
Catch  sight  of  those  old  chimneys  any  more." 

"  Xo  more,"  he  answered.     "If  you  pushed  one  iiay 
Through  all  the  green  hills  to  our  father's  lionse, 
You'd  come  upon  a  great  charred  circle  where 
The  patient  earth  was  singed  an  acre  round  ; 
With  one  stone-stair,  symbolic  of  m^-  life, 
Ascending,  winding,  leading  u[)  to  nought? 
'Tis  worth  a  poet's  seeing.     Will  you  go  ?" 


iOQ  AUROUA     LEIGH. 

I  made  no  answer.     Had  I  an}'  right 

To  weep  with  this  man.  that  I  dared  to  speak  ! 

A  vvoniau  stood  l)etween  his  soul  and  mine, 

And  waved  us  off  from  touching  evermore 

With  those  unclean  white  hands  of  hers.     Enough 

We  had  burnt  our  viols  and  were  silent. 

So, 
The  silence  lengthened  till  it  [)ressed.     I  spoke, 
To  breathe  :  "  1  think  you  were  ill  afterward." 

"  More  ill,"  he  answered,  "  had  been  scarcely  ill. 

I  hoped  this  feeble  fumbling  at  life's  knot 

Might  end  concisel}' — but  I  failed  to  die, 

As  formerly  I  failed  to  live — and  thus 

Grew  willing,  having  tried  all  other  ways. 

To  try  just  God's.     Humility's  so  good. 

When  pride's  impossible.     Mark  us,  how  we  make 

Our  virtues,  cousin,  from  our  worn-out  sins, 

Which  smack  of  them  from  henceforth.     Is  it  right, 

For  instance,  to  wed  here,  while  you  love  there  ? 

And  3'et  because  a  man  sins  once,  tlie  sin 

Cleaves  to  him,  in  necessity  to  sin  ; 

That  if  he  sin  not  so,  to  damn  himself, 

He  sins  so,  to  damn  others  with  himself: 

And  thus,  to  wed  here,  loving  tliere,  becomes 

A  duty.     Virtue  buds  a  dubious  leaf 

Round  mortal  brows  ;  ^'our  ivy's  better,  dear. 

— Yet  she,  'tis  certain,  is  my  very  wife  ; 

The  very  lamb  left  mangled  by  the  wolves 

Through    my  own    bad    shepherding :    and    could    1 

choose 
But  take  her  on  my  shoulder  past  this  stretch 
Of  rough,  uneasy  wilderness,  poor  lamb, 
Poor  child,  poor  child  ? — Aurora,  my  belov'd, 
I  will  not  vex  you  an}'  more  to-night  ; 
But,  having  spoken  what  I  came  to  say, 
The  rest  shall  please  you.     What  she  can,  in  me — 
Protection,  tender  liking,  freedom,  ease, 
She  shall  have  surely,  liberall}',  for  her 
And  hers,  Aurora.     Small  amends  thej^'U  make 
For  hideous  evils  (which  she  had  not  known 
Except  b}'  me)  and  for  this  imminent  loss. 
This  forfeit  presence  of  a  gracious  friend, 
Which  also  she  must  forfeit  for  my  sake. 
Since,  .  .  .  drop  your  hand  in  mine  a  moment  sweet, 
We're  parting ! Ah,  my  snowdrop,  what  a  touch, 


AURORA      LEiail.  407 

As  if  the  wind  had  swept  it  off!  you  ijnidge 
i'o.ir  golid  sweetness  on  my  palm  but  so, 
^A.  moment  ?  angiy,  that  1  eould  not  bear 
You  .  .   speaking,  breathing,  living,  side  by  side 
With  some  one  called  my  wife  .  .  and  live,  myself? 
Nay,  be  not  cruel — you  must  understand! 
Vour  lightest  footfall  on  a  floor  of  mine 
Would  shake  the  bouse,  m^'^  lintel  being  uncrossed 
'Gainst  angels:  henceforth  it  is  night  with  me, 
And  so,  henceforth,  I  put  the  shutters  up  ; 
Auroras  must  not  come  to  spoil  my  dark." 

He  smiled  so  feeldy,  with  an  empty  hand 
,  Stretched  sideway  from  me — as  indeed  he  looked 
To  any  one  but  me  to  give  him  hel^i — 
And,  while  the  moon  came  suddenly  out  full, 
The  double  rose  of  our  Italian  moons, 
Sntlicient,  plainly,  for  the  heaven  and  ^arth, 
(The  stars,  struck  dumb  and  washed  awa^'  in  dews 
Of  golden  glory,  and  the  mountains  steeucd 
In  divine  languor)  he,  the  man,  appeared 
So  pale  and  patient,  like  the  marble  man 
A  sculptor  puts  his  personal  sadness  in 
To  join  his  grandeur  of  ideal  thought — 
As  if  his  mallet  struck  me  from  my  height 
Of  passionate  indignation,  I  who  had  risen 
Pale — doubting,  })aused,    ....    Was    Koi?^M^y    mad 

indeed  ? 
Had  all  this  wrong  of  heart  made  sick  the  brabx  ? 

Then  quiet,  with  a  sort  of  tremulous  pride, 
•'  Go,  cousin,"  I  said  coldly,     "A  farewell 
Was  sooner  spoken  'twixt  a  pair  of  friends 
In  those  old  daj's,  than  seems  to  suit  you  now: 
And  if,  since  tlien,  I've  writ  a  book  or  two, 
I'm  somewhat  dull  still  in  the  manly  art 
Of  phrase  and  metaphrase.     Why,  an}'  man 
Can  carve  a  score  of  white  Loves  out  of  snow. 
As  Buonarroti  down  in  Florence  there. 
And  set  them  on  the  wall  in  some  safe  shade, 
As  safe,  sir,  as  your  marriage  I  very  good  ; 
Though  if  a  woman  took  one  from  the  ledge 
To  put  it  on  the  table  by  her  flowers. 
And  let  it  mind  her  of  a  certain  friend, 
'Twould  drop  at  once,  (so  better,)  would  not  bear 
Her  nail-mark  even,  where  she  took  it  up 
A.  little  tenderlj' ;  so  best,  I  say  : 


408  AURORA     LEIGH. 

For  me,  1  would  not  toiicb.  so  light  a  thing, 

And  risk  to  spoil  it  half  an  hour  before 

The  sun  shall  shine  to  melt  it:  leave  it  there. 

I'm  plain  at  speech,  direct  in  purpose  :  when 

I  spealc,  you'll  take  the  meaning  as  it  is. 

And  not  allow  for  puckerings  in  the  silks 

By  clever  stiches.     I'm  a  woman,  sir. 

And  use  the  woman's  figures  naturally-. 

As  you,  the  male  license.     So  I  wish  you  well. 

I'm  simply  sorr^'  for  the  griefs  you've  had — 

And  not  forj^our  sake  only,  but  mankind's. 

This  race  is  never  grateful :  from  the  first. 

One  fills  their  cup  at  supper  with  pure  wine, 

Which  back  they  give  at  cross-time  on  a  sponge, 

In  bitter  vinegar." 

"If  gratefuller," 
He  murmured — "hx  so  much  less  pitiable! 
God's  self  would  never  have  come  down  to  die, 
Could  man  have  thanked  him  for  it." 

"  Happily 
'Tis  patent  that,  whatever,"  I  resumed, 
"You  suffered  from  this  thanklessness  of  men, 
You  sink  no  more  than  Moses'  bulrush-boat. 
When  once  relieved  of  Moses ;  for  you're  light, 
You're  light,  my  cousin  !  which  is  well  for  you, 
And  manly.      For  myself — now  mark  me,  sir, 
They  burnt  Leigh  Hall  ;  but  if,  consummated 
To  devils,  heightened  beyond  Lucifers, 
The}^  had  burnt  instead  a  star  or  two,  of  those 
We  saw  above  there  just  a  moment  back, 
Before  the  moon  abolished  them — destroyed 
'And  riddled  them  in  ashes  through  a  sieve 
On  the  head  of  the  foundering  universe — what  then  f 
If  you  and  I  remained  still  you  and  I, 
It  would  not  shift  our  places  as  mere  friends, 
Nor  render  decent  you  should  toss  a  phrase 
Beyond  the  point  of  actual  feeling  ! — nay 
You  shall  not  interrupt  me:  as  you  said, 
We're  )}arting.      Certainly,  not  once  or  twice, 
To-night  you've  mocked  me  somewhat,  or  yourself; 
And  I,  at  least,  have  not  deserved  it  so 
That  I  should  meet  it  unsurprised.     But  now, 
Enough :  Ave're  parting  .   .  i)arting.      Cousin  I.eigh, 
1  wish  you  well  through  all  the  acts  of  life 
And  life's  relations,  wedlock,  not  the  least; 
And  it  shall  '  please  me,'  in  your  words,  to  know 
You  yield  your  wife,  protection,  freedom,  ease, 


AURORA      LEIGH.  409 

And  very  tender  liking.     May  3'ou  live 

So  liapp3'  Willi  her,  Roniney,  that  your  friends 

Ma^'  praise  her  for  it.     Meantime,  some  of  us 

Are  wholly  didl  in  keeping  ignorant 

Of  wjiat  siie  has  suffered  by  you,  and  what  debt 

Of  .•sorrow  j'our  rich  love  sits  down  to  pay  : 

But  if  'tis  sweet  for  love  to  pay  its  debt, 

'  iMs  sweeter  still  for  love  to  give  its  gift ; 

And  you,  be  liberal  in  the  sweeter  way — 

You  can,  I  think.     At  least,  as  touches  me, 

You  owe  her,  cousin  Romne}',  no  amends ; 

Slie  is  not  used  to  hold  my  gown  so  fast, 

You  need  entreat  her  now  to  let  it  go : 

Tlie  lady  never  was  a  friend  of  mine. 

Nor  capable — I  thought  you  knew  as  much — 

Of  losing  for  ^'our  sake  so  poor  a  prize 

As  such  a  worthless  friendship.     Be  content, 

Good  cousin,  therefore,  both  for  her  and  you  ! 

I'll  never  spoil  your  dark,  nor  dull  3'our  noon. 

Nor  vex  you  when  you're  merry,  nor  when  you  rest: 

You  shall  not  need  to  put  a  shutter  up 

To  keep  out  this  Aurora.     Ah,  your  north 

Can  make  Auroras  which  vex  nobody. 

Scarce  known  from  evenings !  also,  let  me  say, 

]Sty  larks  fly  higher  than  some  windows,     llight  ; 

You've  read    your  Leighs.     Indeed  'twould  shake  a 

house, 
If  such  as  I  came  in  with  outstretched  hand, 
Still  warm  and  thrilling  from  the  clasp  of  one  .  . 
Of  one  we  know,  .  .  to  acknowledge,  palm  to  palm, 
As  mistress  there  .  .  the  Lady  AValdemar." 
"  Now  God  be  with  us"  .  .  with  a  sudden  clash 
Of  voice  he  interrupted — "  what  name's  that  ? 
You  spoke  a  name,  Aurora." 

"  Pardon  me  ; 
I  would  that,  Romney,  I  could  name  your  wife 
Nor  wound  j'ou,  3-et  be  worthy." 

"Are  we  mad  ? 
He  echoed — "  wife  !  mine  !   Lad}'  Waldemar  ! 
I  think  3'ou  said  my  wife."     He  sprang  to  his  feet, 
And  threw  his  noble  head  back  toward  the  moon 
As  who  swims  against  a  stormy'  sea, 
And  laughed  with  such  a  helpless,  hopeless  scorn, 
r  stood  and  trembled. 

"  May  God  judge  me  so," 
lie  said  at  last — "  I  came  convicted  here. 


410  AURORALBIGH. 

And  humbled  sorelj^  if  not  enough.     I  carae, 

Because  this  woman  from  her  crystal  soul 

Had  shown  me  something  which  a  man  calls  light . 

Because  too,  formerly,  I  sinned  by  her 

As,  then  and  ever  since,  I  have,  by  God, 

Through  arrogance  of  nature — though  I  loved  .  . 

Whom  best,  I  need  not  say,  .  .  since  that  is  writ 

Too  plainly  in  the  book  of  my  misdeeds ; 

And  thus  1  came  here  to  abase  myself, 

And  fasten,  kneeling,  on  her  regent  brows 

A  garland  which  I  startled  thence  one  da}^ 

Of  her  beautiful  June-youth.     But  here  again 

I'm  baffled  ! — fail  in  my  abasement  as 

My  aggrandizement:  there's  no  room  left  for  me, 

At  any  woman's  foot,  who  misconceives 

M^^  nature,  purpose,  possible  actions.     What ! 

Are  you  the  Aurora  who  made  large  my  dreams 

To  frame  j-our  greatness  ?  you  conceive  so  small  ? 

You  stand  so  less  than  woman,  through  being  more, 

And  lose  3'our  natural  instinct,  like  a  beast, 

Through  intellectual  culture?  since  indeed 

T  do  not  think  that  any  common  she 

Would  dare  adopt  such  fanc3f-forgeries 

For  the  legible  life-signature  of  sncli 

As  I,  with  all  my  blots :  with  all  my  blots ; 

At  last  then,  peerless  cousin,  we  are  peers — 

At  last  we're  even.     Ah,  ^^ou've  left  your  height; 

And  here  upon  my  level  we  take  hands. 

And  here  1  reach  you  to  forgive  3'ou,  sweet, 

And  that's  a  fall,  Aurora.     Long  ago 

You  seldom  understood  me — but,  before, 

I  could  not  blame  you.     Then  you  only  seemed 

So  high  above,  3'ou  could  not  see  below ; 

But  now  I  breathe — but  now  I  pardon  ! — nay. 

We're  parting.     Dearest,  men  have  burnt  my  house, 

Maligned  my  motives — but  not  one,  I  SAvear, 

Has  Avronged  my  soul  as  this  Aurora  has. 

Who  called  the  Lady  Waldemar  my  wife." 

"Not  married  to  her!  yet  3'ou  said"  .  . 

"Again? 
Nay,  read  the  lines"  (he  held  a  letter  out) 
"  She  sent  j^ou  through  me." 

B}"  the  moonlight  there, 
I  tore  the  meaning  out  with  passionate  haste 
Much  rather  than  1  read  it.     Thus  it  ran. 


AURORA     LEIGH.  41] 


NINTH  BOOK. 

Even  tlius.     I  pause  to  write  it  out  at  length, 
The  letter  of  the  Lady  Waklemar. — 

"  I  prayed  j'our  cousin  Leigh  to  take  j'ou  this. 

fie  says  he'll  do  it.     After  years  of  love, 

Or  what  is  called  so — when  a  woman  frets 

And  fools  upon  one  string  of  a  man's  name, 

And  fingers  it  forever  till  it  breaks — 

lie  may  perhaps  do  for  her  sncli  thing. 

And  she  accept  it  without  detriment 

Although  slie  should  not  love  him  any  more. 

And  I,  who  do  not  love  him,  nor  love  you, 

Nor  you,  Aurora — choose  you  sluijl  repent 

Your  most  ungracious  letter,  and  confess, 

Constrained  by  his  convictions,  (he's  convinced) 

You've  wronged  me  fouU}'.     Are  you  made  so  ill, 

You  woman — to  impute  such  ill  to  me  ? 

We  both  had  mothers — la}^  in  their  bosom  once. 

Why,  after  all,  I  thank  you,  Aurora  Leigh, 

For  proving  to  myself  that  there  are  things 

I  would  not  do,  .  .  not  for  my  life  .  .  nor  liira  .  . 

Though  something  1  have  somewhat  overdone — 

For  instance,  when  I  went  to  see  the  gods 

One  morning,  on  Olympus,  with  a  step 

That  shook  the  thunder  in  a  certain  cloud. 

Committing  myself  vileh'.      Could  I  think, 

The  Muse  1  i)ulled  my  heart  out  from  m}-  breast 

To  soften,  had  herself  a  sort  of  heart. 

And  loved  my  mortal  ?     He,  at  least,  loved  her; 

I  heard  him  say  so  ;  'twas  my  recompense, 

AVhen,  watching  at  his  bedside  fourteen  days, 

He  broke  out  ever  like  a  flame  at  whiles 

Between  the  heats  of  fever  ...    '  Is  it  thou  ? 

Breathe  closer,  sweetest  mouth  !  and  when  at  last 

The  fever  gone,  the  wasted  face  extinct 

As  if  it  irked  him  much  to  know  me  there, 

He  said,   '  'Twas  kind,  'twas  good,   'twas  womanly, 

(And  fifty  praises  to  excuse  one  love) 

'  But  was  the  picture  safe  he  had  ventured  for?' 

And  then,  half  wandering  .  .  '  1  have  loved  her  well, 

Although  she  could  not  love  me.' — '  Say  instead,' 

1  answered,  '  that  she  loves  you.' — 'Twas  my  turn 

To  rave:  (I  would  have  married  him  so  changed, 


412  AUllORALEIGH. 

Although  the  world    had  jeered  me  properly 

For  taking  up  with   Cupid  at  his  worst, 

The  silver  quiver  worn  (>ff  on  his  hair.) 

'  Xo,  no,'  he  murmured,  '  no,  she  loves  me  not; 

Aurora  Leigh  does  better:  bring  her  book 

And  read  it  softl,y,  Lad}'  Waldemar, 

Lentil  I  thank  your  friendslup  more  for  that, 

Than  even  for  harder  service.'     So  I  read 

Tour  bool<,  Aurora,  for  an  hour,  that  day  : 

I  kept  its  pauses,  marked  its  emphasis ; 

My  voice,  empaled  upon  rhyme's  golden  hooks, 

Not  once  would  writhe,  nor  quiver,  nor  revolt ; 

I  read  on  calmly — calmly  sliut  it  up. 

Observing,  '  There's  some  merit  in  the  book. 

And  \'et  the  merit  in't  is  thrown  away 

As  cliances  still  witU  women,  if  we  write 

Or  write  not :   we  want  string  to  tie  our  flowers. 

So  drop  them  as  we  walk,  whicli  serves  to  show 

The  way  we  went.     Good  morning  Mister  Leigh; 

You'll  find  another  reader  the  next  time. 

A  woman  who  does  better  than  to  love, 

I  hate  ;  she  will  do  nothing  very  well : 

Male  poets  are  preferable,  tiring  less 

And  teaching  more.'     1  triumphed  o'er  you  both, 

A:kI  left  him. 

"  When  I  saw  him  afterward, 
I  had  read  your  shameful  letter,  and  ray  heart. 
He  came  with  health  recovered,  strong  though  pale. 
Lord  Howe  and  he,  a  courteous  pair  of  friends, 
'I'o  say  what  men  dare  sa^'  to  women,  when 
Their  debtors.     But  I  stopped  them  with  a  word  ; 
And  proved  1  had  never  trodden  such  a  road, 
To  carry  so  much  dirt  upon  ray  shoe. 
Then,  putting  into  it  soraething  of  disdain, 
I  asked  forsooth  his  pardon,  and  my  own. 
For  having  done  no  better  than  to  love, 
And  that,  not  wisely — tliough  'twas  long  ago, 
And  though  'twas  altered  perfectly  since  then. 
I  told  hira,  as  I  tell  you  now  Miss  Leigh, 
And  proved  I  took  some  trouble  for  his  sake 
(Because  I  know  he  did  not  love  the  girl) 
To  s[)oil  my  hands  with  working  in  the  stream 
Of  tiiat  poor  bubbling  nature — ^till  she  went, 
Consigned  to  one  I  trusted,  my  own  maid, 
Who  once  had  lived  full  five  months  in  my  house, 
(Dressed  hair  superbly)  with  lavish  purse 


A  U  R  O  U  A      L  E  I  Q  II .  '  413 

To  carry  to  Australia  where  she  had  left 

A  husband,  said  she.     If  the  creature  lied, 

The  mission  failed,  we  all  do  fail  and  lie 

More  or  less — and  I'm  sorry — which  is  all 

h]xpected  from  us  when  we  fail  the  most, 

,Vnd  go  to  church  to  own  it.     What  I  meant, 

Was  just  the  best  for  him,  and  me,  and  her  .  . 

Best  even  for  Alarian  ! — I  am  sorr\^  for't, 

And  very  sorr}-.     Yet  my  creature  said 

She  saw  her  stop  to  speak  in  Oxford  Street 

To  one  .  .  no  matter!     I  had  sooner  cut 

My  hand  olf  (though  'twere  kissed  the  hour  before, 

And  pi'omised  a  pearl  troth-ring  for  tlie  next) 

Than  crush  her  sill}'  head  witli  so  much  wrong. 

Poor  child  !     I  would  have  mended  it  with  gold. 

Until  it  gleamed  like  St.  S<)i)hia's  dome 

AVhcn  all  the  faithful  troop  to  morning  prayer: 

lUit  he,  he  nipped  the  bud  of  such  a  thouglit 

With  that  cold  Leigh  look  which  I  fancied  once, 

And  broke  in,  'Henceforth  she  was  called  his  wife. 

II is  wife  required  no  succor:  he  was  bound 

To  Florence,  to  resume  this  broken  bond  : 

Enough  so.     Botl)  were  happy,  he  and  Howe, 

To  acquit  me  of  the  heaviest  charge  of  all — ' 

— At  which  I  shut  my  tongue  against  my  flv 

And  struck  him  ;   '  Would  he  carry — he  was  just — 

A  letter  from  me  to  Aurora  Leigh, 

And  rntifj'  from  his  authentic  mouth 

My  answer  to  her  accusation  ?  ' — '  Yes, 

If  such  a  letter  were  prepared  in  time.' 

— He's  just,  3'onr  cousin — ay,  abhorrently. 

He"d  wash  his  hands  in  blood,  to  keep  them  clean 

And  so,  cold,  courteous,  a  mere  gentleman, 

He  bowed,  we  parted. 

"  Parted.     Face  no  more, 
Voice  no  more,  love  no  more!  wiped  wholly  out 
Like  some  ill  scholar's  scrawl  from  heart  and  slate — 
.\_y,  spit  on  and  so  wiped  out  utterly' 
By  some  coarse  scholar !     I  have  been  too  coarse, 
Too  human.     Have  we  business,  in  our  rank, 
With    blood    i'   the  veins?     I    will    have    heucefortb 

none ; 
Not  even  keep  the  color  at  my  lip. 
A  rose  is  i>ink  and  pretty  without  blood; 
Wli}'  not  a  woman  y  when  we've  pla3ed  in  vain 
The  game,  to  adore — we  have  resour  -ws  still, 


;i4  AURORA      LEIGH. 

And  can  pla_y  on  at  leisure,  being  adored : 

Here's  Smith  alread}'  swearing;  at  ni}-  feet 

That  I'm  the  typic  She.     Away  with  Smitli ! — 

Smitli  smacks  of  Leigh — and  henceforth,  I'll  admit 

No  socialist  within  three  crinolines, 

To  live  and  have  his  being.     But  for  you, 

Though  insolent  3'our  letter  and  absurd, 

And  though  1  hate  you  frankl}- — take  my  Smith  ! 

For  when  you  have  seen  this  lamous  mnrriage  tied, 

A  most  unspotted  Erie  to  a  noble  Leigh, 

(His  love  astra}^  on  one  he  should  not  love) 

Howbeit — beware,  yon  should  not  want  his  love, 

You'll  want  some  comfort.      So  1  leave  you  Smith  ; 

Take  Smith ! — he    talks    Leigh's    subjects,  somewhat 

worse  ; 
Adopts  a  thought  of  Leigh's,  and  dwindles  it ; 
Groes  lea.ii'ues  beyond,  to  be  no  inch  behind  ; 
Will  mind  j'ou  of  him,  as  a  slioe-string  may. 
Of  a  man  :  and  women,  when  they  are  made  like  you, 
Grow  tender  to  a  shoe-string,  foot-print  even, 
Adore  averted  shoulders  in  a  glass. 
And  memories  of  what,  present  once,  was  loathed. 
And  yet,  you  loathed  not  llomney — though    you've 

played 
At  'fox  and  goose'  about  him  with  your  soul: 
I'ass  over  fox,  3'ou  rub  out  fox — ignore 
A  feeling,  you  eradicate  it — the  act's 
Identical. 

"  I  wish  you  jo^^  Miss  Leigh. 
You've  made  a  happy  marriage  for  3'our  friend; 
And  all  the  lionor,  well-assorted  love. 
Derives  from  you  who  love  him,  whom  he  loves! 
You  need  not  wish  me  J03'  to  think  of  it, 
I  have  so  much.     Observe,  Aurorfv  Leigh 
Your  droop  of  e^^elid  is  the  same  as  his. 
And,  but  fOr  3'ou,  I  might  have  won  his  love, 
And,  to  you,  I  have  shown  ni}-  naked  heart — 
For  which  three  things  I  hate,  hale,  hate  3|0u.     Hush. 
Suppose  a  fourth! — 1  cannot  choose  but  think 
That,  with  him,  I  were  virtuouser  than  you 
Without  him :   so  I  hate  you  from  this  gulf 
And  hollow  of  my  soul,  whicli  opens  out 
To  what,  except  for  you,  hail  my  heaven. 
And  is  instead,  a  place  to  cur.se  by  !     Love.'-' 

An  active  kind  of  curse.      I  stood  there  cursed — 
Confounded,     i  Juad  seized  and  caught  the  sense 


AURORA      L  KI  a  II.  41c 

Of  the  letter  with  its  twenty  stinging  snakes, 
lu  a  moment's  sweej)  of  eyesight,  and  I  stood 
Dazed. — "  Ah  ! — not  married," 

"  You  mistake,"  he  said 
'  I'm  maiiied.      Is  not  .Ma\ian  Erie  my  wife? 
As  God  sees  things,  1  lia\e  a  wife  and  child  ; 
And  I,  as  I'm  a  man  who  iionors  (jod, 
Am  here  to  claim  my  child  and  wife." 

I  felt  it  hard  to  breathe,  much  less  to  speak. 
Xor  word  of  mine  was  needed.     Some  one  else 
Was  thei-e  for  answering.     "  Romney,"  she  began, 
"  My  great  good  angel,  Romney." 

Then  at  first, 
I  knew  that  Marian  Erie  was  beautiful. 
She  stood  there,  still  and  pallid  as  a  saint, 
Dilated,  like  a  saint  in  ecstasy, 
As  if  the  floating  moonshine  interposed 
l>etwixt  her  foot  and  the  earth,  and  raised  her  up 
To  float  upon  it.     "  1  had  left  my  child, 
AVho  sleeps,"  she  said,  "and,  having  drawn  this  waj"", 
I  heard  ^-ou  speaking,  .  .  friend  ! — Confirm  me  now. 
You  take  this  ^larian,  such  as  wicked  n)en 
Have  made  her,  for  3-our  honorable  wife  V 

The  thrilling,  solemn,  proud,  pathetic  voice. 

Pie  stretched  his  arms  out  tovvard  the  thrilling  voice, 

As  if  to  draw  it  on  to  his  embrace 

— "  I  take  her  as  God  made  her,  and  as  men 

^[ust  fail  to  unmake  her,  as  m}^  honored  wife." 

She  never  raised  her  eyes  nor  took  a  step, 

But  stood  there  iu  her  place,  and  spoke  again. 

■ — "You  take  this  Marian's  child,  which  is  her  shame 

In  sight  of  men  and  women,  for  your  child, 

Of  whom  you  will  not  ever  feel  ashamed  ?" 

TTie  thrilling,  tender,  proud,  pathetic  voice. 

He  stepped  on  toward  it,  still  with  outstretched  ams 

As  if  to  quench  upon  his  breast  that  voice. 

— "  May  God  so  father  me,  as  I  do  him, 

And  so  forsake  me  as  I  let  him  feel 

He's  orphaned  hapl^y.     Here  I  take  the  child 

To  share  m\'  cup,  to  slumber  on  my  knee, 

To  pla}'  his  loudest  gambol  at  my  foot, 

To  hold  my  finger  in  the  i)ublic  ways, 


416  AURORA     LEIGH. 

Till  none  shall  need  inquire,  '  Whose  child  is  this  ?' 
The  gesture  sa3ing  so  tenderly,  '  My  own.'  " 

She  stood  a  moruent  silent  in  her  place  ; 

Then,  turning  toward  me,  very  slow  and  cold — 

— "And  3'ou — what  sa}'  you? — will    you   blame   me 

nnich, 
If,  careful  for  that  outcast  child  of  mine, 
I  catch  this  hand  that's  stretched  to  me  and  him, 
Nor  dare  to  leave  him  friendless  in  the  world 
Where  men  have  stoned  me  ?     Have  I  not  the  right 
To  take  so  mere  an  aftermath  from  life, 
Else  found  so  wholl}"^  bare  ?     Or  is  it  wrong 
To  let  your  cousin,  for  a  generous  bent, 
Put  out  his  ungloved  fingers  among  briars 
To  set  a  tumbling  bird's-nest  somewhat  straight? 
You  will  not  tell  him,  though  we're  innocent 
We  are  not  harmless  ?  .  .  and  that  both  our  harms 
Will  stick  to  his  good  smooth  noble  life  like  burrs, 
Never  to  drop  off  though  j'ou  shake  the  cloak  ? 
You've  been  m3^friend  :  you  will  not  now  be  his  ? 
Y''ou've  known  him,  that  he's  worthy  of  a  friend  ; 
And  3'ou're  his  cousin,  lady,  after  all. 
And  therefore  more  than  free  to  take  his  part, 
Explaining,  since  the  nest  is  surely  spoilt, 
And  Marian  what  you  know  her — though  a  wife, 
Tlie  world  would  hardly  understand  her  case 
Of  being  just  hurt  and  honest;  while  for  him, 
'Twould  ever  twit  him  with  his  bastard  child 
And  married  Harlot.     Speak,  while  yet  there's  time. 
You  would  not  stand  and  let  a  good  man's  dog 
Turn  round  and  rend  him,  because  his,  and  reared 
Of  a  generous  breed — and  will  3'ou  let  his  act, 
Because  it's  generous?     Speak.     I'm  bound  to  3'ou, 
And  I'll  he  bound  b}'  only  you,  in  this." 
The  thrilling,  solemn  voice,  so  passionless, 
Sustained,  yet  low,  without  a  rise  or  fall. 
As  one  who  had  authority  to  speak, 
And  not  as  Marian. 

I  looked  up  to  feel 
If  God  stood  near  me,  and  beheld  his  heaven 
As  blue  as  Aaron's  priestly -robe  appeared 
To  Aaron  when  he  took  it  off  to  die. 
And  then  I  spoke — "  Accept  the  gift,  I  say. 
My  sister  Marian,  and  be  satisfied. 
The  hand  that  gives  has  still  a  soul  behind 


AURORA      LEIOH.  4i; 

WhiiJi  wil.  not  let  it  quail  for  having  given, 
Though  foolish  worldlings  tallc  they  know  not  what, 
Of  what  they  know  not.      llonurey's  strong  enough 
For  this:  do  you  he  strong  to  know  he's  strong  : 
He  stands  on  Right's  side  ;  never  flinch  for  him, 
As  if  he  stood  on  the  other.     You'll  be  bound 
By  me  ?  '  I  am  a  woman  of  repute  ; 
No  fly-blow  gossip  ever  specked  my  life  ; 
My  name  is  clean  and  open  as  this  hand, 
Whose  glove  there's  not  a  man  dares  blab  about 
As  if  he  had  touched  it  freely : — here's  luy  hand 
To  clasp  30ur  hand,  my  Marian,  owned  as  pure  I 
As  pure — as  I'm  a  woman  and  a  Leigh  ! — 
And,  as  I'm  both,  I'll  witness  to  the  world 
That  ilomney  Leigh  is  honored  in  his  choice, 
"Who  chooses  Marian  for  his  honored  wife." 

Her  broad  wild  woodland  eyes  shot  out  a  light ; 

Her  smile  was  wonderful  for  rapture.     "  Tliaidvs, 

My  great  Aurora."     Forward  then  she  sprang, 

And  dropping  her  impassioned  spaniel  head 

With  all  its  brown  abandonment  of  curls 

On  Romne^-'s  feet,  we  heard  the  kisses  drawn 

Through  sobs  upon  the  foot,  upon  the  ground — ■■ 

"  0  Romnc}' !  0  my  angel  !  O  unchanged, 

Though,  since  we've  parted,  I  have  passed  the  grave, 

But  Death  itself  could  only  l)etter  thee, 

Not  change  thee  If^T/iee  I  do  not  thank  at  all  : 

I  but  thank  God  who  made  thee  what  thou  art, 

So  wholly  godlike." 

When  he  tried  in  vain 
To  raise  her  to  his  embrace,  escaping  thence 
As  any  leaping  fawn  from  a  huntsman's  grasp, 
She  bounded  off"  and  'lighted  beyond  reach, 
Refore  him  with  a  staglike  majesty 
Of  soft,  serene  defiance — as  she  knew 
He  could  not  touch  her,  so  was  tolerant 
He  had  cared  to  try.     She  stood  there  with  her  gieat 
Drowned    eyes,  and    dripping   cheeks,    and    stran<;o 

sweet  smile 
That  lived  through  all,  as  if  one  held  a  light 
Across  a  waste  of  waters — shook  her  liead 
To  keep  some  thoughts  down  deei)er  in  her  soul — 
Then,  white  and  tranquil  as  a  sunmier-cloud 
Which,  having  rained  itself  to  a  tardy  peace, 
Stands  still  in  heaven  as  if  it  ruled  the  day, 


418  AURORA      LEIGH. 

Spoke  out  again — "  Although,  my  genei'ous  friend, 

Since  last  we  met  and  parted,  you're  unchanged, 

And,  having  promised  faith  to  Marian  Erie, 

Maintain  it,  as  she  were  ciianged  at  all  ; 

And  though  that's  worthy,  though  that's  full  of  balm 

To  an^'  conscious  spirit  of  a  girl 

Who  once  has  loved  you  as  I  loved  you  once — 

Yet  still  it  will  not  make  her  .  .  if  she's  dead, 

And  gone  away  where  none  can  give  or  take 

In  marriage — able  to  revive,  return 

And  wed  y<ju — will  it  Romnej- ?     Here's  the  point; 

0  friend,  we'll  see  it  plainer:  you  and  I 

Mustiiever,  never,  never  join  hands  so. 

Nay,  let  me  say  it — for  I  said  it  first 

To  God,  and  placed  it,  rounded  to  an  oath, 

Par,  far  above  the  moon  there,  at  His  feet. 

As  surely  as  I  have  wept  just  now  at  yours — 

We  never,  never,  never  join  hands  so. 

And  now,  be  patient  Avith  me  ;  do  not  think 

I'm  speaking  from  a  false  humility. 

The  truth  is,  I  am  grown  so  proud  with  grief, 

And  He  has  said  so  often  through  his  nights 

And  through  his  mornings,  '  Weep  a  little  still, 

Thou  foolish  Marian,  because  women  must, 

But  do  not  blush  at  all  except  for  sin' — 

That  I,  who  felt  mj'self  unworthy  once 

Of  virtuous  llomney  and  his  high-born  race. 

Have  come  to  learn  .  .  a  woman  poor  or  rich. 

Despised  or  honored,  is  a  human  soul ; 

And  what  her  soul  is — that,  she  is  herself, 

Althougli  slie  should  be  spit  upon  of  men, 

As  is  tlie  pavement  of  the  churches  here. 

Still  good  enough  to  pra}'  in.     And,  being  chaste 

And  honest,  and  inclined  to  do  the  right. 

And  love  the  truth,  and  live  ni}'  life  out  green 

And  smooth  beneath  his  steps,  I  should  not  fear 

To  make  him,  thus,  a  less  uneasy  time 

Than  many  a  happier  woman.     Very  proud 

You  see  me.     Pardon,  that  I  set  a  trap 

To  hear  a  confirmation  in  3'our  voice  .   . 

Both  j'ours  and  3'ours.     It  is  so  good  to  know 

'Twas  really  God  who  said  the  same  before: 

For  thus  it  is  in  heaven,  that  first  G(m1  si^eaks. 

And.  then  his  angels.     Oh,  it  does  me  good, 

It  wipes  me  clean  and  sweet  from  deviTs  dirt, 

That  Roniuey  Leigh  should  think  me  worthy  still 


AURORA     LEIGH.  419 

Of  being  his  true  and  honorable  wife  1 

jlonceforth  I  need  not  su}-,  on  leaving  earth, 

I  had  no  glory  in  it.     For  the  rest, 

The  reason's  ready  (master,  angel,  friend, 

lie  patient  with  me)  wherefore  3-011  and  I 

Can  never,  never,  never  join  hands  so. 

1  know  you'll  not  be  angry  like  a  man 

(For  2/oii  are  none)  when  I  shall  tell  the  truth — • 

Which  is,  I  do  not  love  you  Romney  Leigh, 

I  do  not  love  yon.     Ah  well !  catch  my  hands. 

Mis*  Leigh,  and  burn  into  my  eyes  with  yours — 

I  swear  J  do  not  love  him.     Did  I  once  ?  ^ 

'Tis  said  that  Avonien  have  been  bruised  to  death. 

And  yet,  if  once  they  loved,  that  love  of  theirs 

Could  never  be  drained  out  with  all  their  blood: 

I've  heard  such  things  and  pondered      Did  I,  indeed, 

Love  once?  or  did  1  only  worship?     Yes, 

Perhaps,  0  friend,  1  set  you  up  so  high 

Above  all  actual  good  or  hope  of  good, 

Or  fear  of  evil,  all  that  could  be  mine, 

I  haply  set  3'ou  above  love  itself, 

And  out  of  reach  of  these  poor  woman's  arms. 

Angelic  R0mne3^     What  was  in  my  thought  ? 

To  be  your  slave,  your  help,  your  toy,  your  tool. 

To  be  your  love  .  .  I  never  thought  of  that. 

To  give  yon  love  .  .  still  less.     I  gave  you  love  ? 

1  think  1  did  not  give  you  anything  ; 

I  was  but  onl3-  yours — upon  my  knees. 

All  3-ours,  in  soul  and  body,  in  head  and  heart — 

A  creature  you  had  taken  from  the  ground, 

Still  crumbling  through  your  lingers  to  3'our  feet 

To  join  the  dust  she  came  from.     Did  I  love, 

Or  did  I  worship  ?  judge,  Aurora  Leigh  ! 

But,  if  indeed  1  loved,  'twas  long  ago — 

So  long  !  before  the  sun  and  moon  were  made. 

Before  the  hellg  were  open — ah,  before 

I  heard  m3'  child  cr3'  in  the  desert  night. 

And  knew  he  had  no  lather.      It  may  be, 

L'm  not  as  strong  as  other  women  are, 

AVho,  torn  and  crushed,  are  not  undone  from  love. 

Jt  may  be,  I  am  colder  than  the  dead. 

Who,  being  dead,  love  always.     But  for  me 

Once  killed,  .  .  this  gliost  of  Marian  loves  no  more, 

No  more  .  .  except  the  child !  .   .  no  more  at  all. 

I  told  your  cousin,  sir,  that  1  was  dead  ; 

And  uovv,  she  thinks  I'll  get  up  from  my  grave, 


.ij2:p  AURORA     LEIGH. 

And  wear  my  chin-cloth  for  a  wedding-veil, 

And  glide  along  the  churchyard  like  a  bridt, 

While   all    the    dead   keep    whispering    thrbuo-h    the 

withes, 
'  You  would  be  better  in  your  place  with  us, 
You  pitiful  corruption  !'     At  the  thouo-ht, 
The  damps  break  out  on  me  like  leprosj^, 
Although  I'm  clean.     A3',  clean  as  Marian  Erie  : 
As  Marian  Leigh,  I  know,  I  were  not  clean: 
T  have  not  so  much  life  that  I  should  love, 
.  .  Except  the  child.     Ah  God  !  I  could  not  boar 
To  see  m}'  darling  on  a  good  man's  knees, 
And  know  by  such  a  look,  or  such  a  sigh. 
Or  such  a  silence,  that  he  thought  sometimes, 
'  This  child  was  fathered  by  some  cursed  wretch' 
For,  Romney — angels  are  less  tender-wise 
Than  God  and  mothers  :  even  ijou  would  think 
What  we  think  never.     He  is  ours,  the  child ; 
And  we  would  sooner  vex  a  soul  in  heaven 
By  coupling  with  it  the  dead  body's  thought, 
It  left  behind  it  in  a  last  month's  grave. 
Than,  in  my  child,  see  other  than  .  .  my  child. 
We  onh',  never  call  him  fatherless 
Who  has  God  and  his  mother.     0  ray  babe, 
M}-  pretty,  pretty-  blossom,  an  ill-wind 
Once  blew  upon  my  breast !  can  an}'  think 
I'd  have  another — one  called  happier, 
A  fathered  child,  with  lather's  love  and  race 
That's  worn  as  bold  and  open  as  a  smile, 
To  vex  my  darling  Avhen  he's  asked  his  name 
And  has  no  answer?     Wlhat !  a  happier  child 
Thau  mine,  nn^  best — who  laughed  so  loud  to-night 
He  could  not  sleep  for  pastime  ?     Nay,  I  swear 
By  life  and  love,  that,  if  I  lived  like  some, 
And  loved  like  .  .  some  .  .  ay,  loved    you,  Romney? 

Leigh, 
As  some    love   (eyes    that    have   wept  so   much   see 

clear), 
I've  room  for  no  more  children  in  my  arms ; 
My  kisses  are  all  melted  on  one  mouth ; 
I  would  not  push  my  darling  to  a  stool 
To  dandle  babies.     Here's  a  hand,  shall  keep 
Forever  clean  without  a  marriage-rin<T, 
To  tendsmy  bo^',  until  he  cease  to  need 
One  steadying  finger  of  it,  and  desert 
(Not  miss)  his  mother's  lap,  to  sit  with  men. 


t 

AURORA      LEIGH.  42I 

And  ivbcn  I  miss  him  (not  he  nie)  I'll  come 

And  say,  'Now  give  me  some  of  rvomne3''s  work, 

To  help  your  outeast  orphans  of  the  world, 

And  comfort  grief  with  grief.'     For  you,  meantime, 

?>Iost  noble  llomney,  wed  a  noble  wife, 

And  open  on  each  other  3'our  great  souls — 

1  need  not  farther  bless  you.     Jf  I  dared 

But  strain  and  touch  her  in  her  upper  sphere, 

And  sa}-,  '  Come  down  to  Romne\' — pnj-  mj-  debt  I' 

1  should  be  joyful  with  the  stream  of  joy 

Sent  through  me.     But  the  moon  is  in  my  face  .  . 

1  dare  r.vt — though  I  guess  the  name  he  loves ; 

I'm  learned  with  my  studies  of  old  days, 

Bememboring  how  he  crushed  his  under-lip 

\Vhen  some  one  came  and  spoke,  or  did  not  come: 

Aurora,  I  could  touch  her  with  mj'  hand. 

And  lly.  because  I  dare  not." 

She  was  gone. 
Kc  smiled  so  sternh*  that  I  spoke  in  haste. 
"  Forgive  her — she  sees  clearly  for  herself: 
Jlcr  instinct's  hoi}'." 

"  /  forgive  ?"  he  said, 
"  1  only  marvel  how  she  sees  so  sure, 
While  otliers"  .  .  thei-e  he  paused — tli^;'!  hoarse,  al> 

ru{)l — 
"  Aurora,  you  forgive  us,  her  and  me? 
For  Iser,  the  thing  she  sees,  poor  loyal  child, 
J  r  once  corrected  by  the  thing  I  know, 
JIad  been  unspoken  ;  since  she  loves  3'ou  well, 
Has  leave  to  love  you  : — while  for  me,  alas, 
If  once  or  twice  I  let  m}'  heart  escape 
This  night,   .   .   remember,  where  hearts  slip  and  fall 
The}-  break  beside:  we're  parting — parting — ah, 
You  do  not  love,  that  you  should  surel}'  know 
What  that  word  means.     Forgive,  be  tolerant ; 
It  had  not  been,  but  that  I  felt  myself 
So  safe  in  impuissance  and  despair, 
I  could  not  hurt  you  though  1  tossed  m^^  arms 
And  sighed  my  soul  out.     The  most  utter  wicteh 
AVill  clioose  his  postures  when  he  comes  to  die, 
However  in  the  presence  of  a  queen: 
And  you'll  forgive  me  some  unseemly  spasms 
\Vliich  meant  no  more  than  dying.      J)o  you  think 
I  had  ever  ci>me  here  in  mv  perfect  mind, 
Unless  1  had  come  here,  in  my  settled  mind, 
Bound  Marian's,  bound  to  keep  the  bond,  and  give 


422  AURORA     LEIGH. 

My  name,  ni\'  house,  my  hand,  the  things  I  could, 

To  Maiian  !     Foi-  even  /  could  give  as  much  ; 

Even  I,  affronting  her  exalted  soul 

By  a  supposition  tliat  she  wanted  these, 

Couid  act  the  husband's  coat  and  hat  set  up 

To  creak  i'  the  wind  and  drive  the  world-crows  ofl 

From  pecking  in  her  garden.     Straw  can  fill 

A  hole  to  keep  out  vermin.     Now,  at  last, 

I  own  heaven's  angels  round  her  life  suffice 

To  fight  the  rats  of  our  society. 

Without  this  Korcney :  I  can  see  it  at  last ; 

And  here  is  ended  my  pretension  winch 

The  most  pretended.     Over-proud  of  course, 

Even  so! — but  not  so  stupid  .  .  bliiul  .  .   that  I, 

Whom  thus  the  great  'taskmaster  of  the  world 

Has  set  to  meditate  mistaken  work, 

M3'  dreary  face  against  a  dim  blank  wall 

Thi-oughout  man's  natural  lifetime — could  pretend 

Or  wish  .   .    0  love,  J  have  loved  3'ou !     0  my  soul, 

I  have  lost  you  ! — but  1  swear  by  all  yourself. 

And  all  3'ou  might  have  been  to  me  these  3'ears, 

If  that  June-morning  had  not  failed  m^-  hope — 

I'm  not  so  bestial,  to  regret  that  day 

This  night — this  night,  which  still  to  you  is  fair; 

Na^',  not  so  blind,  Aurora.     1  attest 

Those  stars  above  us,  which  I  cannot  see  .  ,  ." 

"  You  cannot."  .  . 

"That  if  Heaven  itself  should  stoops 
Remix  the  lots,  and  give  me  another  chance, 
I'd  say,  'Xo  other!' — I'd  record  my  blank. 
Aurora  never  should  be  wife  of  mine." 
"  Not  see  the  stars  ?" 

"  'Tis  worse  still,  not  to  see 
To  find  your  hand,  although  we're  parting,  dear. 
A  moment  let  me  hold  it,  ere  we  part: 
And  understand  m}'  last  words — these  at  last! 
I  Avould  not  have  you  thinking,  when  I'm  gone, 
That  llomney  dared  to  hanker  for  3'our  love, 
In  thought  or  vision,  if  attainable, 
(Which  certainl}'  for  me  it  never  was) 
And  wish  to  use  it  for  a  dog  to-da)-. 
To  help  the  blind  man  stumbling.     God  forbid  1 
And  now  I  know  he  held  you  iu  his  palm. 
And  kept  3-011  oi)en-eyed  to  all  my  faults, 
To  save  you  at  last  from  such  a  drear}-  end. 


AURORA      LEian.  423 

Believe  me,  dear,  tliat  if  I  had  known,  like  Him, 

What  loss  was  coining  on  mo,  I  had  done 

As  well  in  this  as  He  has. — Farewell,  you, 

^\  lio  are  still  my  light — farewell !     How  Hte  it  is  : 

i  know  that,  now:  you've  been  too  patient,  sweet. 

i  will  but  blow  ni}'  whistle  toward  the  lane. 

And   some  one  comes  .  .  the  same  wlio   brought  mr, 

here. 
Get  in — Good  night." 

"  A  moment.     Heavenly  Christ  ! 
A  moment.     Speak  once,  Komney.     ''fis  not  true. 
I  hold  ^'our  hands,  I  look  into  your  face — 
You  see  me  ?  " 

"  No  more  than  the  blessed  stars. 
Be  blessed  too,  Aurora.     Ah,  my  sweet, 
You  tremble.     Tender-hearted  !     Do  you  mind 
Of  .yore,  dear,  how  you  used  to  cheat  old  John, 
And  let  the  mice  out  slil>-  from  his  traps, 
Until  he  marvelled  at  the  soul  in  mice 
AVhich  took  the  cheese  and  left  the  snai-e  ?  The  same 

Dear  soft  heart  always!     'Twas  for  this  I  grieved 

Howe's  letter  never  reached  you.     Ah,  youhad  heard 

or  illness — not  the  issue  .  .  not  the  extent: 

?ily  life  long  sick  with  tossings  up  and  down  ; 

The  sudden  revulsion  in  the  blazing  house — 

The  strain  and  struggle  both  of  body  and  soul. 

Which  left  fire  running  in  my  veins,  for  blood  : 

Scarce  lacked  that  thunderbolt  of  the  falling  beam, 

Which  nicked  me  on  the  forehead  as  I  passed 

The  gallery  door  with  a  burden.     Say  heaven's  bolt, 

Not  \N^illiam  Erie's  ;  not  Marian's  father's  ;  tramp 

And  poacher,  whom  I  found  for  Avhat  he  was. 

And,  eager  for  her  sake  to  rescue  him, 

Forth  swept  from  the  open  liighway  of  the  Avorld, 

Road-dust  and  all — till,  like  a  woodland  bear 

Most  naturally  unwilling  to  be  tamed. 

He  notched  me  with  his  tooth.     J3ut  not  a  word 

'i'o  Marian  !  and  1  do  not  think,  besides. 

He  turned  the  tilting  of  the  beam  my  wa}' — 

And  if  he  laughed,  as  many  swear,  poor  wi'etch. 

Nor  he  nor  I  supposed  the  hurt  so  deep. 

We'll  hope  his  next  laugh  ma}'^  be  merrier, 

In  a  better  cause." 

"  Blind,  Romney  ?  " 

"  Ah,  my  friend, 
You'll  learn  to  say  it  in  a  cheerful  voice. 


>24  AURORA     LEIGH. 

(,  too,  at  first  desponded.     To  be  blind, 

Turned  out  of  nature,  mulcted  as  a  man, 

Ixefused  the  dail\'  largesse  of  the  sun 

To  humble  creatures!     When  the  fever's  heat 

Dropped  from   me,  as  the  flame  did  from  my  house, 

And  left  me  ruined  like  it,  stripped  of  all 

The  hues  and  shapes  of  aspectable  life, 

A  mere  bare  blind  stone  in  the  blaze  of  day, 

A  man,  u])on  the  outside  of  the  earth, 

As  dark  as  ten  feet  under,  in  the  grave — 

Why  that  seemed  hard." 

"No  hope  ?  " 

"  A  tear!   vou  weep 
Divine  Aurora  ?  tears  upon  ray  hand  ! 
I've  seen  you  weeping  for  a  mouse,  a  bird — 
But,  weep  for  me,  Aurora  ?     Yes,  there's  hopo 
Xot  hope  of  sight — I  could  be  learned,  dear, 
And  tell  j'ou  in  what  Greek  and  Latin  name 
The  visual  nerve  is  withered  to  the  root. 
Though  the  outer  e_ves  appear  indifferent, 
Unspotted  in  their  crj'stals.     But  there's  hope. 
The  spirit,  from  behind  this  dethroned  sense. 
Sees,  waits  in  patience  till  the  walls  break  up 
From  which  the  bass-relief  and  fresco  have  dropt- 
There's  hope.     The  man  here,  once  so  arrogant 
And  restless,  so  ambitious,  for  his  part, 
Of  dealing  with  statistically'  packed 
Disorders,  (from  a  pattern  on  his  nail,) 
And  packing  such  things  quite  another  way — 
Is  now  contented.     From  his  personal  loss 
He  has  come  to  hope  for  others  when  they  lose, 
And  wear  a  gladder  faith  in  what  we  gain  .  . 
Through  bitter  experience,  compensation  sweet, 
Like  that  tear,  sweetest.     I  am  quiet  now — 
As  tender  surel}'  for  the  suifering  world^ 
But  quiet — sitting  at  the  wall  to  learn. 
Content,  henceforth,  to  do  the  thing  I  can: 
For,  though  as  powerless,  said  I,  as  a  stone, 
A  stone  can  still  give  slielter  to  a  worm. 
And  it  is  worth  while  being  a  stone  for  that  : 
There's  hope,  Aurora." 

"  Is  there  hope  fur  rae? 
For  me  ? — and  is  tliere  room  beneath  the  stone 
For  such  a  worm? — And  if  I  came  and  said  .  . 
What  ail  this  weeping  scarce  will  let  me  say, 
A-ud  yet  what  women  cannot  say  at  ail, 


AURORA     LEIGH.  425 

But  weeping  bitterly  .  .  (tlie  pride  keeps  up, 
Until  the  heart  lireaks  under  it)  .  .  I  love — 
I  love  you,  llomney"  .  .  . 

"  Silence  ! "  he  exclaimed 
"  A  woman's  pity  sometimes  makes  her  mud. 
A  man's  distraction  must  not  cheat  his  soul 
To  take  advantage  of  it.     Yet,  'tis  hard — 
Farewell,  Aurora." 

"  But  I  love  3'ou,  sir : 
And  when  a  woman  saj's  she  loves  a  man. 
The  man  must  hear  her,  though  he  love  her  not, 
Which  .  .  hush  1  .  .  he  has  leave  to  answer  in  his  turn  ; 
She  will  not  surely  blame  him.     As  for  me, 
You  call  it  pity — think  I'm  generous  ? 
'Twere  somewhat  easier,  for  a  woman  proud 
As  I  am,  and  I'm  very  vilel}^  proud. 
To  let  it  pass  as  such,  and  press  on  you 
Love  born  of  i)it3' — seeing  that  excellent  loves 
Are  born  so,  often,  nor  the  quicklier  die — 
And  this  would  set  me  higher  b}'  the  head 
Than  now  I  stand.     No  matter:  let  the  truth 
Stand  high  :  Aurora  must  be  humble  :   no, 
M\-  love's  not  pity  merely.     Obviousl}' 
I'm  not  a  generous  woman,  never  was. 
Or  else,  of  old,  I  had  not  looked  so  near 
To  weights  and  measures,  grudging  you  t\te  power 
To  give,  as  first  I  scorned  your  povver  to  judge 
For  me,  Aurora  :  I  would  have  no  gifts 
Forsooth,  but  God's — and  I  would  use  them,  too, 
According  to  my  pleasure  and  my  choice. 
As  He  and  I  were  equals — you,  belovif,' 
F]xcluded  from  that  level  of  interchange 
Admitting  benefaction.      You  were  wrong 
\n  much?  you  said  so.     I  was  wrong  in  most. 
Oh,  most !     You  only  thought  to  rescue  men 
l?v  half-means,  half-wa}',  seeing  half  their  wants, 
While  tliinking  nothing  of  your  personal  gain. 
But  I  who  saw  tile  luiman  nature  broad, 
At  both  sides,  comprehending,  too,  the  soul's. 
And  all  the  high  necessities  of  Art, 
Betrayed  the  thing  I  saw  and  wronged  my  own  life 
For  which  I  pleaded.     Passioned  to  exalt 
The  artist's  instinct  irt  me  at  the  cost 
Of  putting  down  the  woman's — I  forgot 
No  perfect  artist  is  developed  here 
From  any  imperfect  woman.     Flower  from  root, 


4?G  AURORA     LEIGH. 

And  spiritual  from  natural,  grade  by  grade 

In  all  our  life.     A  handful  of  the  earth 

To  make  Gc-xl's  image  !  the  despised  poor  earth, 

The  liealtiiy  odorous  earth — I  missed,  with  it, 

The  divine  IJreath  that  blows  tiie  nostrils  out 

To  ineffable  inflatus  :  ay,  the  breath 

"Whieh  love  is.     Art  is  much,  but  love  is  more. 

0  Art,  my  Art,  thou'rt  much,  but  Love  is  more  I 
Art  s3'ml)olizes  heaven,  but  Love  is  God 

And  makes  heaven.     I,  Aurora,  fell  from  mine  : 

1  would  not  be  a  woman  like  the  rest, 
A  simple  woman  who  believes  in  love. 

And  owns  the  right  of  love  because  she  loves, 

And,  hearing  she's  beloved,  is  satisfied 

With  what  contents  God:  I  must  analyze, 

Confront,  and   question;  just  as  if  a  fly 

Refused  to  warm  itself  in  any  sun 

Till  such  was  in  leone :  I  must  fret 

Forsooth,  because  the  month  was  only  May  ; 

Be  faithless  of  the  kind  of  proffered  love, 

And  captious,  lest  it  miss  in}-  dignit}'. 

And  scornful,  that  mj-  lover  sought  a  wife 

To  use  .  .  to  use !     O  Romney,  O  my  love, 

I    am  changed    since   then,   changed  wdiolly — for  in 

deed. 
If  now  j-ou'd  stoop  so  low  to  take  my  love. 
And  use  it  roughly',  without  stint  or  spare. 
As  men  use  common  tilings  with  more  behind, 
(And,  in  this,  ever  would  be  more  behind) 
To  any  mean  and  ordinary  end — 
The  joy  would  s«t  me  like  a  star,  in  heaven. 
So  high  up,  I  should  shine  because  of  height 
And  not  of  virtue.     Yet  in  one  respect. 
Just  one,  beloved,  I  am  in  no  wise  changed  : 
I  love  you,  loved  you  .  .  loved  you  first  and  last, 
And  love  you  on  forever.     Now  1  know 
I  loved  3'ou  alv.'ays,  Romney.     She  who  died 
Knew  that,  and  said  so ;  Lady  Waldemar 
Knows  that ;   .   .    and  Marian  :   I  had  known  the  sain« 
Except  that  I  was  prouder  than  I  knew, 
And  not  so  honest.     A}^  and  as  I  live, 
I  should  have  died  so,  crushing  in  my  hand 
This  rose  of  loA'^e,  the  wasp  insifle  and  all — 
Ignoring  ever  to  my  soul  and  you 
Both  rose  and  pain — except  for  this  great  loss, 
This  great  despair — to  stand  before  3-011  r  face 


AURORA     LEIOfl.  4  27 

And  know  I  cannot  win  a  look  of  3-011  rs. 
5foa  think,  perhaps,  I  am  not  changed  from  prido, 
And  that  I  chiefly'  bear  to  say  such  words 
Because  3'oa  cannot  shame  nic  with  your  eyes  ? 

0  calm,  grand  eyes,  extinguished  in  a  storm. 
Blown  out  like  lights  o'er  melancholy-  seas, 
Though  shrieked  for  h}'  the  shipwrecked — 0  my  Dark, 
jNIy  Cloud — to  go  ])eforc  me  ever^-  day 

While  I  go  ever  toward  the  wilderness — 

1  would  tliat  3-0U  could  see  me  bare  to  the  soul  1 — 
If  this  be  pity,  'tis  so  for  myself, 

And  not  for  i\oniney  ;  he  can  stand  alone  : 

A  man  like  him  is  never  overcome : 

N'o  woman  like  me,  counts  him  pitiable 

While  saints  applaud  him.     He  mistook  the  world: 

But  I  mistook  m^-  own  heart — and  that  slip 

Was  fatal.     Romne}- — will  3-ou  leave  me  here.' 

So  wrong,  so  proud,  so  weak,so  unconsoled, 

So  mere  a  woman  ! — and  I  love  3^ou  so — 

1  love  3'ou,  Romne}'." 

Could  I  see  his  face, 
I  wept  so  ?     Did  I  drop  against  his  breast. 
Or  did  his  arms  constrain  me?     AVere  my  cheeks 
Hot,  ovcrflooded,  with  my  tears,  or  his  ? 
And  wliicli  of  our  two  large  explosive  hearts 
So  shook  me  ?    That,  I  know  not.     There  were  words 
That  broke  in  utterance  .  .  melted,  in  the  fire; 
Embrace,  that  was  convulsion,  .  .  then  a  kiss  .  . 
As  long  and  silent  as  the  ecstatic  night — 
And   deep,  deep,   shuddering   breatlis,   which   meant 

be3-ond 
Whatever  could  be  told  by  word  or  kiss. 

But  what  he  said  .  .  I  have  written  day  b3'  day, 
AVith  somewhat  even  w'riting.     Did  I  think 
That  such  a  passionate  rain  would  intercept 
And  dash  this  last  page  ?     What  he  said,  indeed, 
I  fain  would  write  it  down  here  like  the  rest 
To  keep  it  in  m3''  e^-es,  as  in  my  ears. 
The  heart's  sweet  scripture,  to  be  read  at  night 
When  weary,  or  at  morning  when  afraid, 
And  lean  my  heaviest  oath  on  when  I  swear 
That  when  all's  done,  all  tried,  all  counted  here, 
All  great  arts,  and  all  good  philosophies — 
This  love  just  puts  its  hand  out  in  a  dream, 
And  straight  outreaches  all  things. 


423  AURORA     LEIGH. 

What  he  said, 
I  fain  would  write.     But  if  an  angel  spoke 
In  thunder,  should  we,  hapl}',  know  much  more 
Than  that  it  thundered  ?     If  a  cloud  came  down 
And  wrapt  us  wholly,  could  we  draw  its  shape, 
As  if  on  the  outside,  and  not  overcome  ? 
And  so  lie  spake.     His  breath  against  raj'  face 
Confused  his  words,  3'et  made  them  more  intense — 
As  when  the  sudden  finger  of  the  wind 
Will  wipe  a  row  of  single  city-lamps 
To  a  pure  white  line  of  tlame,  more  luminous 
Because  of  obliteration  ;  more  intense 
The  intimate  presence  carr3'ing  in  itself 
Complete  communication,  as  with  souls 
Who,  having  put  the  body  off,  perceive 
Through  simply  being.     Thus,  'twas  granted  me 
To  know  he  loved  me  to  the  depth  and  height 
Of  such  large  natures,  ever  competent 
With  grand  horizons  b^'  the  land  or  sea. 
To   love's  grand  sunrise.     Small  spheres  hold  small 

fires: 
But  he  loved  largely,  as  a  man  can  love 
Who,  baffled  in  his  love,  dares  live  his  life, 
Accept  the  ends  which  God  loves,  for  his  own, 
And  lift  a  constant  aspect. 

From  the  day 
I  had  brought  to  England  m}'  poor  searching  face, 
(An  orphan  even  of  ray  father's  grave) 
He  had  loved  me,  watched  me,  watched   his  soul  in 

mine, 
Which  in  me  grew  and  heightened  into  love. 
For  he,  a  boy  still,  had  been  told  the  tale 
Of  how  a  fairy  bride  from  Ital}', 
With  smells  of  oleanders  in  her  hair, 
Was  coming  through  the  vines  to  tonch  his  hand; 
Whereat  the  blood  of  boyhood  on  the  palm 
Made  sudden  heats.     And  when  at  last  I  came. 
And  lived  before  him,  lived,  and  rarely  smiled, 
He  smiled  and  loved  me  for  the  thing  I  was, 
As  ever}^  child  will  love  the  j-ear's  first  flower, 
(Not  certainly  the  fairest  of  the  year, 
But,  in  which,  the  complete  year  seems  to  blow^ 
The  poor  sad  snowdrop — growing  between  drifts, 
Mj'sterious  medium  'twixt  the  plant  and  frost, 
So  faint  with  winter  while  so  quick  with  spring. 
So  doubtful  if  to  thaw  itself  away 


AURORA     LEIOU.  4-20 

With  that  snow  near  it.     Not  that  Roraney  Leigh 

lla<l  loved  me  coldly.     If  1  thought  so  once, 

It  was  as  if  I  hud  held  my  hand  in  fire 

And  shook  for  cold.     But  now  I  understood 

Forever,  that  the  very  lire  and  heat 

Of  troubling  passion  in  him,  burned  him  clear, 

And  sliaped  to  dubious  order,  word  and  act. 

That,  just  because  he  loved  nic  over  all. 

All  wealth,  all  lands,  all  social  privilege, 

To  which  chance  made  him  unexpected  heir — 

And,  just  because  on  all  the.se  lesser  gifts, 

Constrained  b^'  coiiscience  and  the  sense  of  wrono- 

Tie  had  stamped  with  steady  hand  God's  arrow-mark 

Of  dedication  to  the  human  need, 

He  thouiiht  it  should  be  so  too,  with  his  love; 

lie,  passionately  loving,  would  bring  down 

His  love,  his  life,  his  best,  (because  the  best,) 

His  bride  of  dreams,  who  walked  so  still  and  iiigh 

Through  flower}^  poems  as  through  meadow-grass, 

The  dust  of  golden  lilies  on  iier  feet. 

That  f<he  should  walk  beside  him  on  the  rocks 

In  all  that  clang  and  hewing  out  of  men, 

And  help  the  work  of  help  which  was  his  life. 

And  prove  he  kept  back  nothing — not  his  soul. 

And  when  I  failed  him — for  I  failed  him,  I  — 

And    when    it   seemed    he    had    missed    my   love — he 

thought, 
"  Aurora  makes  room  for  a  working-noon  ;"' 
And  so,  sell-girded  with  torn  strips  of  hope. 
Took  up  his  life,  as  if  it  were  for  death, 
(Just  capable  of  one  heroic  aim,) 
And  threw  it  in  the  thickest  of  the  world — 
At  which  men  laughed  as  if  he  had  drowned  a  dog; 
Nor  wonder — since  Aurora  failed  him  first! 
The  morning  and  the  evening  made  his  day. 

But  oh,  the  night!  oh,  bitter-sweet!  oh,  sweet! 

O  dark,  0  mtjon  and  stars,  0  ecstasy 

Of  darkness!     0  great  mystery  of  love — 

In  which  al)sorbed,  loss,  anguish,  treason's  self 

Enlarges  rapture — as  a  pebble  dropt 

In  some  full  wine-cup,  over-brims  the  wine! 

While  we  two  sat  together,  leaned  that  night 

So  close,  my  very  garments  crept  and  thrilled 

With  stra.nge  electric  life;  and  both  ni}-  cheeks 

Grev   red.  ' )  en  pale,  with  touches  from  my  hair 


430  AURORA     LEIGH. 

In  which  his  breath  was;  wliile  the  golden  moon 

Was  hung  before  our  faces  as  the  badge 

Of  some  sublime  inherited  despair, 

Since  ever  to  be  seen  by  onl^'  one — 

A  voice  said,  low  and  rapid  as  a  sigh. 

Yet  breaking,  I  felt  conscious,  from  a  smile — 

"  Thank  God,  who  made  me  blind,  to  malvc  me  see! 

Shine  on,  Aurora,  dearest  light  of  souls, 

Which  rul'st  for  evermore  ])Oth  da}-  and  night ! 

I  am  happy  " 

I  flung  closer  to  his  breast. 
As  sword  that,  after  battle,  flings  to  sheathe; 
And,  in  that  hurtle  of  united  souls. 
The  mystic  motions  which  in  common  moods 
Are  shut  beyond  our  sense,  broke  in  on  us, 
And,  as  we  sat,  we  felt  the  old  earth  spin. 
And  all  the  starr}-  turbulence  of  worlds 
Swing  round  us  in  their  andient  circles,  till, 
If  that  same  golden  moon  were  overhead 
Or  if  beneatli  our  feet,  we  did  not  know. 

And  then  calm,  equal,  smooth  with  weights  of  joy, 
His  voice  rose,  as  some  chief  musician's  song 
Amid  the  old  Jewish  temple's  Selah-pause, 
And  bade  me  mark  how  we  two  met  at  last 
Upon  this  moon-bathed  promontory  of  earth, 
To  give  up  much  on  each  side,  then,  take  all. 
"  Beloved,"  it  sang,  "  we  must  be  here  to  work; 
And  men  who  work,  can  only  work  for  men, 
And,  not  to  work  in  vain,  must  comprehend 
Humanity-,  and,  so  work  humanly. 
And  raise  men's  bodies  still  by  raising  souls, 
As  God  did,  first."  / 

"  But  stand  upon  the  earth,'^ 
I  said,  "  to  raise  them — (this  is  human  too ; 
There's  nothing  high  which  has  not  first  been  low; 
My  humbleness,  said  One,  has  made  me  great  1) 
As  God  did,  last." 

"  And  work  all  silentl}', 
And  simply,"  he  returned,  "as  God  does  all; 
Distort  our  nature  never,  for  our  work. 
Nor  count  our  right  hands  stronger  for  being  hoofs. 
The  man  most  man,  with  tenderest  human  hands, 
Works  best  for  men — as  God  in  Nazareth." 

He  paused  upon  the  word  and  then  resumed: 

"  Fewer  programmes  ;  we  who  have  no  prescience. 


A  U  U  0  U  A      L  E  I  G  H  .  431 

fewer  systems  ;  we  who  are  hold  and  do  not  liold 
Less  mapi)ing  out  of  masses,  to  be  saved, 
B3'  nations  or  by  sexes.     Fourier's  void, 
And  Comte  is  dwarfed — and  Cabet,  puerile. 
Subsists  no  hiw  of  life  outside  of  life; 
No  perfect  manners,  without  Christian  souls: 
The  Christ  himself  luid  been  no  Lawgiver, 
Unless  He  had  ,i;iven  the  life,  too,  with  the  law.'' 

I  echoed  thoughtfully — "  The  man,  most  man, 
Works  best  for  men  :  and,  if  most  man  indeed, 
He  g'ets  his  mnnhood  plainest  from  his  soul : 
While,  obviously,  this  stringent  soul  itself 
Obeys  our  old  rules  of  development ; 
The  Spirit  ever  witnessing  in  ours. 
And  Love,  the  soul  of  soul,  within  the  soul. 
Evolving  it  sublimel3^     First,  God's  love," 

"  And  next,"  he  smiled,  "  the  love  of  wedded  soulei, 
Which  still  presents  that  mystery's  counterpart. 
Sweet  shadow-rose,  upon  the  water  of  life, 
Of  such  a  mystic  substance,  Sharon  gave 
A  name  to!  human,  vital,  fructuous  rose. 
Whose  calyx  holds  the  multitude  of  leaves. — 
Loves  fdial,  loves  fraternal,  neighbor-loves, 
And  civic,  .  .  all  fair  petals,  all  jiood  scents. 
All  reddened,  sweetened  from  one  central  Heart!  *' 

"  Alas,"  I  cried,   "  it  was  not  long  ago. 
You  swore  this  very  social  rose  smelt  ill." 

"  Alas,"  he  answered,   "  is  it  a  rose  at  all  ? 

The  filial's  thankless,  the  fraternal's  hard, 

The  rest  is  lost.     I  do  but  stan<l  and  think, 

Across  dim  waters  of  a  troul)led  life 

The  Flower  of  Heaven  so  vainly  overhangs — 

What  perfect  counterpart  would  be  in  sight, 

H'  tanks  were  clearer.     Let  us  clean  the  tubes, 

And  wait  for  rains.     0  poet,  O  my  love, 

Since  /  was  too  ambitious  in  my  deed. 

And  thought  to  distance  all  men  in  success. 

Till  God  came  on  me,  marked  the  place,  ajid  said, 

'  Hl-doer,  henceforth  keep  within  this  line, 

Attempting  less  than  others  ' — and  I  stand 

And  work  among  Christ's  little  ones,  content — • 

Come  thou,  my  compensation    my  dear  sight, 


4'.y2  AURORA     LEIGH. 

My  moming-star,  my  morning !  rise  and  shine, 
And  loucb  my  hills  with  radiance  not  their  own; 
Shine  out  for  two,  Aurora,  and  fulfil 
M}'  falling-short  that  must  be  !   work  for  two, 
As  I,  though  thus  restrained,  for  two,  shall  love  I 
Gaze  on,  with  inscient  vision  toward  the  sun, 
And,  from  his  visceral  heat,  pluck  out  the  roots 
Of  light  beyond  him.     Art's  a  service — mark  : 
A  silver  key  is  given  toth}'  clasp. 
And  thou  shalt  stan  I  unwearied,  niglit  and  day, 
And  fix  it  in  the  hard,  slow-turning  wards, 
And  open,  so  that  intermediate  door 
Betwixt  the  different  planes  of  sensuous  form 
And  form  insensuous,  that  inferior  men 
Ma}'  learn  to  feel  on  still  througli  thee  to  those, 
And  bless  th}'  ministration.     The  world  waits 
For  help.     Beloved,  let  us  love  so  well, 
Our  work  sliall  still  be  better  for  our  love, 
4nd  still  our  love  be  sweeter  for  our  work, 
And  both,  commended,  for  the  sake  of  each, 
By  all  true  workers  and  true  lovers,  born. 
Xow  press  the  clarion  on  thy  wc)nian's  lip 
(Love's  holy  kiss  shall  still  keep  consecrate) 
And  breathe  the  fine  keen  breath  along  the  bi'asa. 
And  blow  all  class-walls  level  as  Jericho's 
Past  Jordan  ;  crying  from  the  top  of  souls, 
To  souls,  that  they  assemble  on  earth's  flats 
To  get  them  to  some  purer  eminence 
Than  an}'  hitherto  beheld  for  clouds  I 
"What  height  we  know  not— but  the  way  \vc  know 
And  how  liy  mounting  aye,  we  must  attain. 
And  so  climb  on.     It  is  the  hour  for  souls ; 
That  bodies,  leavened  by  the  will  and  love. 
Be  lightened  to  redemption.     The  world's  old  ; 
But  the  old  world  waits  the  hour  to  be  renewed: 
Toward  which,  new  hearts  in  individual  growth 
Must  quicken,  and  increase  to  multitude 
In  new  dynasties  of  the  race  of  men — 
Developed  whence,  shall  grow  spontaneously 
Xew  churches,  new  oeconomies,  new  laws 
Admitting  freedom,  new  socities 
Excluding  falsehood.     He  shall  make  all  new." 
My  Romney  ! — Lifting  up  ni}-  hand  in  his, 
As  wheeled  bj'  Seeing  spirits  toward  the  east, 
lie  turned  instinctiveh' — v,'here,  faint  and  fair, 
Along  the  tingling  desert  of  the  sk}', 


A  U  11  0  U  A     LEIGH.  433 

Bt'YOUil  the  (.'irclu  of  the  conscious  hills, 
^^'ere  laid  in  jusper-stonc  as  clear  as  glass 
'The  first  ibundations  of  that  new,  near  Day 
"NViiicii  should  be  bnilded  out  of  heaven,  to  (lod, 
lie  stood  a  moment  with  erected  brows, 
In  silence,  as  a  creature  might,  who  gazed  ; 
Stood  calm,  and  fed  his  blind,  mnjcotic  eyes 
Upon  the  thougiit  of  perfect  noon.     And  when 
J  saw  his  soul  saw — "  Jasper  first,"  I   said, 
"  And  second,  sapjjhire  ;  third,  chalcedony  } 
The  rest  iii  order,.    .  last,  an  amethyst." 


OiO^ 


14  DAY  USE 

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